When It Was Over
by Faye Dartmouth
Summary: Dean’s fought the good fight with the hope for peace when he is done. Sam’s fought and failed with the hope that someday, finally, he might just be done.
1. Chapter 1

Title: When It Was Over

Disclaimer: Not mine.

A/N: I've been working on this one for awhile. I started it pre-S5 but so far nothing has happen to render this AU as of yet. For me, this isn't necessarily what I think will happen, but maybe what I wish could happen. The boys deserve as much.

A/N 2: Much thanks to geminigrl11 for the beta and sendintheclowns for the continued support through the writing process. I will say upfront that this fic is more Sam-centric, though Dean is a strong player in it. This is more about Sam's emotional recovery, of which Dean is a huge part, but ultimately is not the focus.

A/N 3: This was supposed to be a one-shot that got desperately out of control. 50,000 words later, it's pretty obvious this can't all be put in one chapter. At the same time, this story doesn't lend itself well (in my mind) to delayed postings, so I'm going to upload all five parts at once so it can be read as a cohesive narrative, as it was conceived in my mind.

A/N 4: I have various song lyrics to accompany the fic, but am only posting those in the LJ version of the story. For those who may be interested, you can check it out at my LJ (faye-dartmouth(dot)livejournal(dot)com).

Summary: Dean's fought the good fight with the hope for peace when he is done. Sam's fought and failed with the hope that someday, finally, he might just be done.

-o-

PART ONE

-o-

It's been nearly three years since Sam started the Apocalypse.

It's been a mere two since Dean stopped it.

Sam's been looking for redemption.

Even three years later, his search goes on.

-o-

"A ghost?" Dean whines. "I don't want to hunt a ghost."

"It's killing people."

"So is cancer," Dean says. "Let's go hunt that."

Sam sighs. "You asked me to find a gig."

"I was hoping for something a little more interesting."

"It's not about being interesting," Sam reminds him. "Saving people, hunting things."

Dean makes a face. "You're still focused on the family business?"

"Aren't you?"

"I sort of gave that up when, you know, an angel pulled me out of Hell."

Sam's never been pulled out by an angel. He hasn't been to Hell either, though sometimes it seems like it. "Then what do you want to do?"

Dean sighs. "I just want this to be over," Dean says.

"We can take a break," Sam offers, not because he wants to, but because Dean sounds like he wants it. It's been years since they had one, and Sam remembers his own pipe dreams of safe and normal.

"I don't want a break," Dean says. "I want out."

Sam doesn't know what to say. He has no solace to give his brother in this regard. Sam doesn't think about getting out. He doesn't think about _after_. He thinks about the here and now, this task before him, the people he has to save to compensate for the ones he killed.

_Got killed_, Dean's voice corrects in his head. Dean thinks there's a difference; Sam's really not so sure.

_Out_ is something you fight for because you deserve it. It's something you earn because you're worth it.

Sam's doesn't deserve it. He's not worth it.

"I can do this one alone," Sam offers.

Dean looks at him, surprised and angry. "You trying to ditch me?"

Sam's eyes widen. "No, I--"

"We do this together," Dean says. "You should know that by now. Remember what happened when we didn't?"

Sam remembers Ruby and demon blood and Lilith.

He pales.

Dean swallows. "Just forget it," he says. "When it's time to move on, we'll know. Right?"

"Know, how?"

"Signs, Sammy," Dean says. "God's mysterious ways."

"You're banking on signs?"

"Better than waiting on your sorry ass," Dean quips.

It's a joke, Sam knows. It's also true.

Dean clears his throat. "So a ghost, huh?" he waggles his eyebrows. "Tell me it's at least got a good story."

-o-

The ghost doesn't have a good story.

It does have surprisingly good aim for something non-corporeal.

-o-

"We're too old for this," Dean moans, clutching at his ribs.

It strikes Sam as funny. Dean's spent his life outgrowing hunting. Sam's spent his life growing into it. Sam wonders if that difference will matter, if it'll come to a head. He wonders what will happen when Dean finds his sign, when Dean rediscovers his true calling, and realizes that Sam doesn't have to be in that picture. That Sam probably _shouldn't_.

He swallows, closes his eyes and turns away. He can't roll on his side with his hips in traction, and he feels vulnerable and exposed.

But at least there are drugs in the IV and Sam actually sleeps for what seems like the first time in years.

-o-

Bobby shows up two days later. He's scowling and looks tired. "I drove all night, you damn idiots," he says.

Dean grins. "Thanks for coming," he says.

"Well, what else am I going to do?" Bobby grouses. "Someone's got to watch out for you two geniuses."

"You so love us."

"Stuff it, Winchester," Bobby orders.

Dean just keeps grinning as Bobby settles in the chair between them. He hasn't used the wheelchair for years, not since the angels gave him the use of his legs as thanks for his role in averting Lucifer's victory. "You two survive the Apocalypse and nearly get taken down by a ghost."

"We got her in the end," Dean reminds him.

"Yeah, and it only cost you two broken ribs and a serious concussion?"

"Don't forget Sammy," Dean reminds him.

Bobby looks at Sam and shakes his head. "Mr. Fractured-Pelvis-Internal-Bleeding-Coma-Boy."

"I was in a coma, too," Dean reminds him petulantly.

Bobby just rolls his eyes. "You two better get some sleep," he says. "Sounds like we'll be here for a while."

Sam's already halfway asleep and doesn't think he could fight this one he if he wanted to.

-o-

It surprises Sam how much his brother loves the hospital.

Dean flirts with the nurses, he makes the doctors laugh. He does a Jell-O impression that has the candy striper almost hyperventilating. He loves the food, he asks for extra sponge baths. He spends time memorizing his chart, and pulls out medical jargon just to see how it goes over.

All in all, Dean's flourishing. Sam doubts his brother ever wants to leave.

Sam feels useless. His body feels weak and impotent, and the stabilizers around his hips are heavy and uncomfortable. He has things to do--things to _hunt_--and fractured hip and internal sutures aside, Sam doesn't feel like this is a reprieve he's earned.

He wants to sign out AMA as soon as he can, but right now, he can't even walk.

As far as signs go, Sam's pretty sure that that's another one. A nail in his coffin. It doesn't matter what he tries, he'll never be enough. He'll never make it right. Maybe he would be better off just rolling over and giving up.

That's a failure Sam can't abide by, though. He'll take the injuries. He'll take the road. He'll take the countless motels, the faceless monsters, the numbing anonymity. He'll do whatever it takes, whatever he has to do. To make it right by the world. To make it right by his brother.

So Sam refuses the painkillers, and pushes for therapy early. There are no easy outs for sinners, especially not ones like him.

-o-

Dean is discharged. Bobby sticks around and the two of them hole up in a motel near the hospital. They visit Sam daily, but it's not the same as being with them, and Sam can't help but wonder what they're doing; wonder what they would _rather_ be doing.

After all, Dean and Bobby are able and fit hunters. Heroes of the Apocalypse.

Sam's the reformed blood addict in traction.

The pain is reassuring, at least. Demons don't feel pain, he knows. If he does, that must count for something.

-o-

Dean's still loving this.

That is perhaps the strangest thing at all. It's not that he's just putting on a front to ease Sam's discomfort, because they both know that ship sailed about the time Sam was locked in the panic room. But it's real. Dean's just...happy.

Enjoying nurses, eating massive amounts of food, having a good time. Which really isn't all that unusual, but there's something different about it this time. Because Dean's not just killing time. He's not just enjoying the moment. He's _settled_.

That scares Sam. That scares Sam a lot. He can be his brother's backup. He can play research boy. He can guard his brother's six and hope to throw himself in front of any bullets Dean might be destined to take. But he can't make Dean stay. He has nothing to offer Dean--he has no ground to stand on. If Dean wants to stay or if Dean wants to go, he can, and Sam couldn't blame him.

Though Sam's been waiting for it. He's seen it coming. It's a stand Dean took with that famous ultimatum. It's a journey he's been taking since he broke down and told Sam that he was tired, that he wanted _out_. It's a path that Sam has no such part of.

Sam knows this story. He knows how it ends.

Dean's fought the good fight with the hope for peace when he is done.

Sam's fought and failed with the hope that someday, finally, he might just be done.

-o-

Bobby's news is old: "Isaac Jefferson is dead."

Sam just nods and Dean make a pained face. "I heard it was natural," Dean says.

"The old guy just went to bed one night and never woke up," Bobby confirmed.

Sam hesitates a moment, for fear of sounding heartless. "So what is it?" he asks gently.

Bobby purses his lips. "The lawyer finally went through his last wishes. I got a call about a few things he left for me and the guy asked me if I knew you two."

Sam and Dean exchange surprised looks.

Bobby shrugs. "Apparently, he left you something, too."

"Dude, the old guy hasn't seen us in years," Dean says. "What would he leave us?"

"Damned if I know," Bobby says. "They're shipping mine back to the salvage yard."

"They can send ours there, too," Dean says.

"It's a little hard to send an entire estate."

Sam stares. Dean is faring no better. "His entire estate?" Dean asks.

Bobby looks like he can't quite make sense of it either. "Jefferson always did have his quirks."

Sam shifts a little in bed. He's out of traction now, but moving is still awkward. The doctors think he can be released in a week and Sam's already planning to bolt AMA in two days. "Are you sure?"

Bobby makes a small sound in the back of his throat. "Lawyer sounded pretty sure on the phone," he says. "Wants you two down there ASAP to comply with Jefferson's last wishes."

Dean blows out a whistle. "Well, damn," he says. He looks at Sam. "Looks like your recovery is just on schedule."

"You sure you boys are up to this?" Bobby asks, uncertainly.

Dean just grins. "You doubt us?"

Sam looks away so as not to disagree.

-o-

Dean doesn't like the idea of AMA, so he offers a compromise. Sam can sign out early if they high tail it out of there and straight for Alabama.

"What's the big deal?" Sam asks.

"It was part of Jefferson's last wishes."

"And we'll get there eventually."

"You can't just delay someone's last wishes."

"He's already been dead for months," Sam reasons.

Dean shakes his head. "When did you become such a heartless SOB?"

Sam sighs. "It's just--we have things to hunt."

Dean rolls his eyes. "There are _always_ things to hunt."

"Exactly," Sam says.

Dean isn't buying it. "We need to do this."

"Why?" Sam asks. Jefferson was an acquaintance of their father's. They'd been in contact briefly over the last few years, a few references for hunts but nothing more. There is little sentimentality there that makes Sam think that this should matter as much as Dean wants it to.

"I just think...maybe it's a sign, you know?" Dean ventures, and Sam can tell he's hesitant.

"A sign?" Sam asks.

"The timing--it's just--kind of a coincidence, you know?"

Sam doesn't.

Dean sighs. "I'm looking to get away, to have a little downtime and then, out of the blue, Jefferson leaves us his estate? Come on, little brother. Surely you can see that."

Sam's tried believing signs. He's tried believing in wonders, too, and even a greater good. But every sign Sam's ever followed led him straight to Hell. The greater good Sam yearned for didn't care who died in the pursuit. He's done with belief; he's done with faith; he's done with _hope_.

What he believes, what he has _faith_ in, is that he'll never hope to deserve any of their comforts.

Dean, however--Dean does.

It's what he's been afraid of. The thing he's been waiting for. The inevitable separation, the finale punishment Sam just needs to accept. Dean has _earned_ this, and Sam knows this could have been far worse. It could have been with a punch and an ultimatum; it could have been with a bullet in his back.

This is just a bittersweet goodbye, a painful letting go.

Sam nods, and he swallows. His throat is tight, but he makes himself speak through it. "You can go," Sam says.

Dean's brow furrows as he weighs Sam's words. "I can go?"

Sam shrugs, and it takes more resolve than he wants to admit to stay calm. "You've earned it."

Dean hesitates. "But I thought--I thought we'd go together."

This surprises Sam. He swallows hard. His resolve is shaken now; he had not anticipated this. "Together?"

"Yeah," Dean says. "Two brothers on a road trip. Like it should be."

It's a nice idea. It's a _really_ nice idea. Five years ago, he would have jumped at the chance. Five years ago, it might have been what he wanted most.

But there are things that are stronger than dreams. There are truths that are more important than wishes.

There's atonement to be sought. There's a danger in settling down. There's the fact that Sam tried to leave once, and it's a mistake that cost him almost everything.

He can't leave. He can't stop. Sam can think of no greater use for his condemned soul than this. Sam can think of no greater punishment than to stay in the life he hated--forever.

"What about hunting?" Sam asks, his voice shaky and low.

"We've paid our dues," Dean says. "My contracts with Heaven and Hell are over, man. There are rewards for that kind of service, and it's about time we started enjoying them."

"They're rewards for you." Sam tells him, his eyes refusing to look away, daring Dean to contradict him.

Dean's face goes taut and he swallows. "I can't do this alone."

"Yes," Sam says. "You can."

"Yeah," Dean says, and he raises a chin and dares Sam back. "But I don't want to."

And there it is--the lynchpin. It's the point Sam can't argue, the thing he can't refuse. Sam has no rights of his own left to cling to. He owes Dean everything. _Everything._

A day later, Sam signs out of the hospital. They bid Bobby farewell, stow their stuff in the trunk, take the letter from Jefferson's lawyer, and head south.

-o-

The letter tells them to check in with Gerald O. Daly, Attorney at Law. Turns out, the man operates out of a trailer on the outskirts of a small Alabama town called Wedowee.

When they knock on the door, there is a long bustle inside. Something crashes to the floor and someone curses, and Sam's about ready to bolt when the door finally opens with a bang.

A harried man is behind it, about Dean's height, frayed gray clumps of hair standing disheveled about his head. He's got jeans on and an open flannel shirt over a stained white undershirt.

"Can I help you?" he asks, and his drawl is as thick as the smell of alcohol on his breath.

"Are you Gerald O. Daly?"

"You boys looking to get hitched?"

"What?" Dean asks.

"Practicing minister," Gerald informs him.

"Not an attorney at law?" Sam asks.

"Oh, hell," Gerald says. "I forgot about that one."

Sam's not sure how anyone could forget about the LSATs and law school, but that's neither here nor there.

"You looking to sue someone?" Gerald asks.

Dean holds up the letter. "We're here about the estate of Isaac Jefferson."

Gerald's face lights up and he throws up the door further. "Why didn't you say so?" he says. "Come in, come in."

Dean exchanges a look with Sam. Sam just shrugs, and follows after his brother.

-o-

The trailer is a mess. Open packages of food, half drunk beer bottles, dirty dishes stacked in the sink. Gerald leads them to the table. He swipes aside the sundry items: papers and plates even what appears to be an open calculus textbook.

"I was expectin' y'all weeks ago," Gerald explains. "You were mighty slow getting here."

"We were a little weighed down," Dean says.

Sam glares, the memory of the traction too clear in his mind.

"It's all good now," Gerald says conversationally. He settles down and produces a manila folder out of nowhere. "Sit, sit. We won't be long."

Dean sits first, and Sam tentatively follows. His chair squeaks and Sam shifts his weight, trying to keep the pressure off his sore pelvis.

"Now, you boys were the sole beneficiaries of Jefferson's, he was quite clear about that. He made me promise that his no-good brother wouldn't see a dime."

"Did he say why us?" Sam asks.

"Something about meeting a need," Gerald says. "Jefferson was really into that during his last years. Always had something to give to someone, and he seemed to always know just what people needed."

Dean looks at Sam, very purposefully.

Sam ignores him. "So what exactly is in the estate?"

Gerald pulls out the papers and lays them in front of them. "Basically, everything he owned. He did leave a particular rifle to some guy named Richard and he gave most of his furniture and personal items to a local church. He also left some car to a fella out in South Dakota, but the rest of it, it's yours."

Sam's eyes are skimming the paper, making short work of the legal jargon.

Dean doesn't seem to have the patience. He licks his lips and smiles. "So if there aren't many possessions left, just what are we looking at here?" he asks. "A trailer or something?

"There is a house," Gerald says. "I haven't been there, but I know it's in decent repair. But most of it is the money."

Dean blinks.

Sam looks up. "The money?" he asks.

Gerald points to the provision on the will in front of Sam. "Right there," he says. "All of his life's savings and the house are to be shared equally between Dean and Samuel Winchester."

"What kind of life savings did Jefferson have?"

Gerald grins and pulls out another sheet. He puts it in front of the boys. "This is his latest bank statement. Jefferson was real careful with his money, put it in all the right places to minimize the red tape when he was gone. There's some tax issues, of course, but that sum? Ain't too far off."

Sam can't even speak. Dean just laughs. "You're kidding, right?"

Gerald isn't kidding.

Dean's jaw drops. "Well," he says. "Crap."

"Crap ain't exactly the term I use for a quarter of a million dollars," Gerald says.

Sam remembers to breathe and shakes his head. "Are you sure that's right?" he asks.

Gerald nods. "Did all the paperwork myself. You boys ain't millionaires or nothing, but Jefferson set you two up real nice, if you just know what to do with it."

"And you're sure he didn't say why he picked us?"

"Son," Gerald says as a matter of fact. "There were some things that Jefferson just _knew_. He found the Lord late in life, and it's hard to say, but I think they had a special relationship. Seemed like Jefferson just knew what God wanted done, and the man found a way to do it. I learned to stop questioning it, and just accept it. Don't know for sure how and don't know why, but he certainly did have a sense of this kind of thing. I think he thought you needed it, that you _deserved_ it."

Dean looks at Sam again. "So you think it's _God's will_ that we're here?"

Gerald chuckles a little. "I ain't no religious man by any stretch of the imagination, son," he said with a self-deprecating sniffle. "But it don't take no saint to know when something's divine."

Sam can't take any more of this from Gerald O. Daly or Dean, so he forces a smile. "So can we go see the property?"

"Sure," Gerald says. He turns the envelope over and a set of keys comes out. Gerald hands it over. "The address and all's on that sheet. And I'll just need to know the account you want the money transferred to when it's convenient for you."

Sam's got the keys and the sheet, and he's pushing to his feet. "We may have to set something up," Sam says.

"But we'll definitely be in touch," Dean assures him, standing after Sam. "Don't want to mess up God's will or anything."

Sam rolls his eyes and heads toward the door. "Thank you for your time," he tells Gerald.

"Anytime," the man says. "And if you all are looking to get married, you just let me know."

Both Sam and Dean pause at that.

"Not to each other, of course," Gerald says quickly, with a snort of laughter. "Brothers ain't legal, not even down around these parts."

"Right," Dean says.

This encounter is a lot of things--weird, unnerving, amusing, eccentric--but Sam's pretty sure _right_ is one word he wouldn't use.

-o-

They settle into the Impala, and Sam's looking through the legal documents. Everything seems in order--just like Gerald O. Daly said.

"So, what do you think?"

Sam frowns a little and shakes his head. "It looks legit."

"Of course it's legit," Dean says and he swipes the papers from Sam. "I just meant, what do you think we're looking at?"

"The house and the money," Sam tells him. "We won't know what the house is worth until we see it."

Dean grins at him. "So maybe it's time to take another little road trip."

"I don't see much other option."

Dean rolls his eyes. "Don't sound too excited about it or anything."

"It probably isn't much."

"It's a house."

"If you haven't notice, the properties around here aren't the greatest," Sam says, nodding to the dingy trailers and the dilapidated farm houses in the distance.

"And if you haven't noticed, this isn't where the place is."

"So where is it?"

Dean pauses for a moment, looking at the paper. Then he laughs. "Dude, you have to see this."

"See what?"

"The name of the town."

"What difference does that make?"

"Just trust me," Dean says.

"I still think this is kind of a waste of time," Sam mutters, slouching in his seat.

"Look at the name of the town, Sam," Dean instructs, a hint of exasperation in his voice.

Sam purses his lips. "It's not going to make a difference."

"Look at the name of the damn town, Sam," Dean says again.

Rolling his eyes, Sam takes the paper, and looks down.

"See, Sammy," Dean says. "Sign from God."

Sam doesn't speak. He can't speak. He's too busy staring at the name, printed out in black and white, as clear as day: _New Hope, Alabama_.

-o-

"It doesn't mean anything," Sam says for the third time. The car is hot and Sam's sweating under his jacket. "It's _coincidence_."

Dean scoffs.

"It _is_," Sam insists, trying to sound sure, but mostly sounding petulant.

"For a smart guy, you're really being pretty stupid about this," Dean tells him.

Sam is sulking, and he knows it, but he can't bring himself to stop. "I'm just smart enough to know what a coincidence is."

Dean laughs, shaking his head. "What is it going to take? God coming down from Heaven and telling us to take a break? Would you believe it then?"

"This isn't a question of belief," Sam says.

"No," Dean agrees, giving him a look from the driver's seat. "This is a question of denial."

That's not it either, but Sam doesn't know how to say what he really means. He's not sure how to explain that he believes in God and he believes in God's goodness: he just doesn't believe in it for him.

"God wants us to do this, Sam," Dean says earnestly. "If you can't trust Him, trust me."

It's the right leverage. Sam squares his shoulders a little, his jaw clenched. "We may as well check the place out," he concedes.

Dean grins. "That's my boy."

Sam just slouches in his seat, pulling in tightly on himself. He'll go along, but he won't do it happily.

For his part, Dean doesn't stop smiling the whole way there.

-o-

New Hope is smaller than Wedowee, and it has that intimate, secluded feeling that towns under 5,000 seem to emit. The downtown is a block long, with weathered buildings slouching in slumped salute, each one looking more aged than the last.

Sam points out a gas station, which would be great for directions, but Dean's thirsty, and pulls them off at a bar instead.

It's six o'clock on a Wednesday night, and it shows. The bar has only a few scattered occupants, including a family of five eating dinner by the window. Dean nods to them with a congenial smile before he saunters up to the bar. Leaning against it, he tilts his head toward the bartender, who comes over with a meandering gait. "What can I do you two for?" he asks.

Sam has positioned himself next to Dean, sitting slightly on the stool.

"Couple of beers," Dean says.

Sam interjects firmly. "Just a water for me."

"Will do," the bartender says easily.

The door opens behind them, and the sound of shrill giggles has both of them turning. Two twenty-something girls are walking inside, moving toward the bar and settling a few stools away from Dean.

They whisper, give Sam and Dean a once over, and giggle again.

Sam wants to hide. Dean sticks his chest out and tries not to preen too obviously.

The bartender returns, placing their drinks in front of them. As he moves off, he nods to the girls. "The usual, ladies?"

"Yes, please, Virgil," one of the girls drawls. She's skinny and blonde, with ripped jean shorts and a baby t-shirt that looks too small for her.

Dean takes a swig, turning slightly toward Sam. "I call dibs on the blonde," he whispers. "The brunette is _totally_ into you."

Sam looks at them appraisingly. The brunette is taller, a bit broader boned. Her hair is shorter and she doesn't look nearly as impressed by the entire situation as the blonde does.

The blonde presses her lips together and straightens her shoulders. She smiles at them. "You're not from around here," she says simply.

Sam almost rolls his eyes at the obviousness of it, but he refrains--for Dean's sake.

His brother perks up a little, flashing her a patented half-grin. "We're taking a little road trip."

The blonde looks vaguely interested.

Virgil the barkeeper puts drinks in front of the girls. The brunette takes a long sip. Sam can't blame her.

"You must be lost then," she says. "No one just _wanders through_ New Hope."

"Oh, why not?" Dean asks. "Seems like a nice little place you have here."

The brunette snorts. "You got the _little _part right."

"Ellie's just doesn't know how to appreciate what she's got," the blonde says with a look back at her friend.

Ellie rolls her eyes. "And Veronica is far too keen on over-valuin' what she does got," she says. She looks at Sam and then at Dean before her eyes linger on Sam again. "You can barely find New Hope on the map. Not that it's not a nice place to grow up or nothin', because it's safe and it's simple and we all trust our neighbors. The guy at the gas pump knows you by name and all your teachers had your momma and your daddy in the classroom before you. It's quaint Americana as it used to be, only we just haven't quite caught up to the rest of the world. People don't look for New Hope. They find it, and nine times out of ten, once they do, they haven't a blessed clue what to do with it."

It's a little bitter and a lot candid and there's almost something rueful in it all. Sam is pretty sure he falls in as one of the nine, and he's pretty sure that Ellie does, too. The blonde is a little hard to gauge just yet, and if he lets Dean take this too much further, his brother will play to be the one of ten, just to make a point.

It is the blonde's turn to roll her eyes. Sam figures it's a rant she's heard before. "Ellie is quite the melodramatic."

"Sounds like a girl who knows her stuff," Dean comments helpfully.

"I've had twenty two years to figure it out," Ellie says with a drink. "Give it two days, and you'll see it, too. New Hope is a little about sink or swim. You belong here or you don't."

"Actually, we are looking to stay in the area," Dean ventures.

The blonde raises her eyebrows. "You're thinking of stayin'?" she asks.

"We have an uncle around these parts," Dean explains. "He, uh--passed away a few months ago. We're here to settle up his estate."

"Oh, I'm sorry," the blonde says, her eyes wide. "What was his name?"

"Isaac Jefferson," Sam interjects, for fear of what ploy of sympathy Dean might entail. A little flirting was okay, but the prospect of being stuck with the brunette is unsettling. She's painfully honest and acutely aware, and the last thing Sam wants right now are more reminders that small towns and peaceful Americana scenes are things he can't ever have.

"Jefferson?" the blonde asks. "You mean the old guy who kept to himself all the time? A little eccentric and a lot brilliant?"

Dean grins. "That's him."

"Why, everyone knew Jefferson," she raves. "But I'll tell you, he didn't live in town."

"So where did he live?" Sam prompts.

"Over 'bout five miles to the west," the blonde says.

"In Peace," Ellie adds.

Sam stiffens. Dean stills. The words reverberate through them with an intensity neither of them can deny.

Swallowing hard, Sam thinks he surely heard it wrong. He must have. There's no way...

Slowly, carefully, he composes the question. His argument hinges on this. His last chance to talk his brother out of this hangs in the balance. He needs this, to prove his point. He needs this, to still have his out. "Where did you say he lived?"

"Right down the way, there," she says, gesturing with her hand. "Just follow the road out and you can't miss it."

"No, the town," Sam says.

"Well, it ain't really a town," the blonde admits sheepishly. "But we all think of it as one."

"What's it called?"

"Peace," she says, with an earnest nod.

Sam's throat tightens and Dean cocks his head. "You're telling us to find Peace?"

"Sounds hokey, I know, but these small towns, they've had these names for hundreds of years."

"It doesn't sound hokey," Dean tells her, and he glances purposefully at Sam. "It sounds just about right. Doesn't it, Sam?"

This time, Sam has no objections. No comebacks.

They're being sent from New Hope to Peace, and Sam's just going to have to accept that.

-o-

Peace, Alabama isn't anything more than a collection of ten houses and three stores. The entire town isn't even a town because it's not even on the map. It's just two square blocks, twenty-seven people, a general store, a bar, a church, and a nail salon.

"At least you won't have to go to town for that," Dean says, nodding at the flickering neon sign on Peace's House of Nails.

Somehow, it's not much comfort, but it certainly makes Dean happy.

Sam doesn't know quite what to think, but Dean's already settled down in Peace, and he has no choice but to follow.

-o-

Jefferson's house is an ancient two-story, with clapboard siding with peeling white paint and a large front porch that slopes toward the street. It's cozy on the inside, with simple rooms and scuffed wood floors. There are three fireplaces, all of them functional, and the ceilings are eleven feet high. The entire thing creaks, and Sam wonders absently if it's even safe at all.

But Dean's taken to it, scoping out the rooms and laying claim. He's designated the formal parlor as the TV room and the sunny second floor bedroom that has the balcony over the street is his. They'll have to share the bathroom, and Dean is thinking about setting up a shop in the pathetic excuse for the garage that opens up to the alley at the back of the lot.

"The rest is all yours," Dean says with a shrug. "You could do up the kitchen real nice. Learn how to cook."

Sam makes a face.

Dean rolls his eyes. "I thought you could use one of the bedrooms as an office or something. Get some book shelves, make your own little geeked out library."

"To do what?"

Dean grunts. "How the hell should I know?" he asks. "Do I look like a geek?"

Sam narrows his eyes and purses his lips. "We don't even have any furniture."

At that, Dean grins. "Shopping," he says. "Awesome."

That's not the word Sam has in mind, but for now, it'll do.

-o-

There's no furniture store in Peace, and there's nothing but an antique shop in New Hope. So they drive all the way to Wedowee. Dean goes through the store like a man on a mission, picking out sofas and chairs, headboards and dining room tables. He picks out a flat screen TV for himself and a desk for Sam, and an assortment of bookcases.

It costs a pretty penny, but Jefferson's money covers it. It'll be delivered in a week, they're told, and Dean takes them out for dinner to celebrate.

"We'll need to clean," Dean says. "Scrub the cabinets, polish the floors. See if the windows needs to be replaced."

Sam just looks at him.

Dean munches on a French fry. "What?"

"This is an awful lot of work and money," Sam says.

"I guess," Dean says.

"I mean, we've never done anything like this before."

"Well," Dean says, shrugging. "We've never been home before."

-o-

They clean for two days straight, and then Dean brings in the tools and they start fixing. Dean plasters the worst of the walls and rehangs a few doors and replaces the hardware on the kitchen cabinets. The next day, Dean comes home with a wide assortment of paint, and they coat the walls with various shades of earth tones and bold colors.

Sam can't help but laugh.

Covered in paint, roller poised on the wall, Dean looks at him. "What?"

"You're painting the living room Weathered Wicker," he says.

"So?" Dean asks. He looks at the color. "I like it."

"It just seems a little, I don't know, _Trading Spaces_?"

"When do you have time to watch girly TV?"

Sam remembers that Jess used to watch it, almost every day. She liked Genevieve's sense of style and was turned off by Hildi's high brow eccentricities.

Sam's smile fades. "Never mind," he says.

-o-

They've worked for nearly six days straight when Dean's humor fades. Sam tells him that Indian Summer is too bright of a color for their kitchen and Dean tells Sam he can shut the hell up. They're screaming about paint colors and furniture arrangement, and Sam's got a splash of color in his hair, while Dean's got Indian Summer smeared across his backside.

"We'll never finish all this if you don't shut up and pull your weight," Dean snaps.

"Who said I wanted to finish this at all?"

"You're the one who wanted to settle down," Dean says.

"That was a long time ago, Dean," Sam says with a glare. "I'm a different person."

"Yeah, like I don't _know_ that," Dean snaps back.

Sam's chest tightens, and he remembers Ruby and the demon blood. He remembers Dean telling him he was going to go darkside, calling him a _monster_. He remembers the long months afterward when Dean didn't trust him, when Dean wouldn't even _look_ at him.

That was the worst. Worse than losing Dean--his brother's silent condemnation is something Sam carries with him and always will.

He knows Dean remembers it, too. Dean says he's forgiven Sam, but in moments like this, Sam's not so sure.

Before either of them can say anything else, the doorbell rings.

Dean scowls at Sam and Sam glares back. Moving past Sam, Dean goes to the door. Sam stays in the kitchen, looking at the half painted orange walls and wishes he is somewhere else.

-o-

It's the welcome committee.

It's also the entire town. The woman in front is named Sylvie, and she closed down the General Store so she could be here. The rest shut down and turned out, too, every last man, woman, and child.

They bring baskets of food--an odd assortment of baked goods and canned delicacies. Sam spots SPAM and a six pack of beer and wonders what is wrong with these people.

"It ain't everyday we get new blood," Sylvie explains. "So we like to make it seem real special like."

Dean's holding a box of fruit, grinning. "That's so awesome," he says.

Sam makes an attempt to smile. "We really appreciate it," he says. He eyes Dean. His brother is glowing a little bit. Sam shifts a little. "We really do have a lot of work to do."

"Work?" Sylvie asks. "What kind of work?"

"Painting," Dean says. "And we're sort of hoping to replace out a few windows and see if we can put some spindles back in the banister."

"Why, darling, why didn't you say so?"

Sam opens his mouth and exchanges a glance with Dean, who looks equally dumbfounded.

Sylvie turns to the crowd behind her. Sam really looks at them for the first time. There are people of all ages, from an elderly couple to a handful of young children. They're white and Hispanic and black and Asian and they're all smiling at him like children of the damned.

"Tanner, why don't you go back and get your tools," Sylvie says. "Byron, you got your glasses on? And Erick, head on back to the store and pick us up some rollers and painter's tape. And only the good stuff. Don't pick up the generic crap we have in the back."

Dean looks uncertainly at them. "We've got it under control."

"Oh, nonsense," Sylvie says. "You boys are at Peace, now, and we're going to make sure you know it one way or another."

With that, the woman pushes past Dean into the house.

-o-

In an afternoon, everything is done.

Byron Lin, a former architect, helps the with the spindles on the crooked stair railing. Chris Porter cleans out their plumbing. Anita Sanchez rewires their lights so they're not a fire hazard while her sister Julia polishes the fixtures. Alice Tanner's got her four kids taking off all the hardware in the house and soaking in a vat of vinegar to take the age off, and Everett pulls a chimney sweep out of nowhere and goes to town. He comes out dirty, but everything else is spotless, and Sam's more than a little blown away by it.

Even Zach, a tall kid with a withdrawn disposition, goes out of his way to make sure that fridge is spotless, under Sylvie's direct supervision, of course.

Dinner appears out of nowhere, complete with piping hot deep fried chicken and fresh squeezed lemonade. Sam doesn't remember a time when he's been better fed...or more noticed.

It makes him feel horrible.

He's glad when they all leave.

Together, he and Dean stand in their empty living room, looking out over the empty floors. The sinking sun is filtering through the spotless windows, hazy with the waving tree branches just outside. It is somehow peaceful there, and for a moment, time seems to stand still.

Just Dean and Sam and this house--this _entire town_. Something Sam can't put his finger on, and isn't sure he wants to. He doesn't want to know all the good that's here, all the potential it all has, because it would just hurt even more when he couldn't have it. When he didn't deserve it.

"This is good for us, Sammy," Dean says. "Both of us."

And Dean means it--with every fiber of his being. Dean's in this for the long haul, Dean's committed and there's no turning back.

It is a beautiful picture, with friends and family and the stability Sam wanted growing up. There is something about this town--the way it draws them in, the way it doesn't let them walk away. It makes Sam want to believe Dean.

Almost, but not quite.

-o-

It takes Dean two days to figure out the lingo. He knows exactly what they're trying to say when Sam's still lost in the harsh twangs.

It takes Dean two weeks to slip _ain't_ into regular conversation. After two months, he has a distinctive southern drawl of his own.

Sam still can't quite get used to the cadence of their speech, and he feels so out of place when he talks that he avoids doing it whenever he can.

If Dean notices, he doesn't say anything.

-o-

Thing seem to be falling into place. It doesn't take long before they know everyone in town, from Erick, who works for Sylvie at the General Store, to Levi, the mild mannered preacher who maintains the church adjacent to Jefferson's house.

Sam knows that Amanda Tanner has to roam around town to get a signal on her cell phone, which she does every night after dinner without fail. He knows that the bar has a sign that says that its hours are from noon until nine daily, but that Anita will serve a drink or whip up a meal for anyone who comes in at any time of day or night.

He knows that Everett and Delores fight every day next door, screaming and yelling. Delores harps and Everett spits and the voices are so loud that sometimes it shakes the walls.

"They are so awesome," Dean says, shaking his head one afternoon while he's sprawled on the couch.

"They fight all the time."

"They love each other."

"How can you tell?"

Dean shrugged. "Seems kind of obvious to me."

"Yelling obscenities at someone is a sign of love?"

"Works for you, bitch."

Sam scowls but can't quite disagree.

-o-

That night, Sam is mending the front fence when he happens to look over at the porch next door. Everett is in his chair as usual, reclined against it, a beer in one hand.

Delores is lounging next to him on the ancient swing. The rusted chain creaks with every gentle motion, but the couple looks like they don't care.

It's unusual, Sam thinks, to see them so quiet. To see them _so happy_.

He's staring, so he smiles and waves.

Delores smiles back and Everett just nods at him.

When Sam turns back to his work, he thinks about the way they're holding hands, and something in his chest tightens. Confusion or envy: Sam will never make himself discern the difference.

-o-

Dean likes the bar and already knows the General Store better than Erick, who's worked there for five years. Dean can predict who's going to need help before they need it, and has a miraculous talent for showing up with a box of screws or a turkey sandwich whenever one of the neighbors needs it. He's fixed Sean Wanet's bike and produced a cup of sugar for Caris Johnson's pound cake in peril and even once manage to catch Nina Porter as she fell off a step stool _inside _her house.

Dean just speaks the same language as the people, and it's more than lingo and accents. It's a way of life, a way of _being_, and it utterly confounds Sam.

He's smart enough, but when he looks at all the people in town, he doesn't really understand. He doesn't understand the leisurely pace or the casual conversation. He doesn't know how to fit into their friendly relationships and their silent pleasantries.

Maybe there was a time when he could have. Maybe with Jess, maybe when he was a kid who just wanted _safe_, but he's changed now. He remembers telling Ruby he'd changed for good, and even if Dean doesn't like to talk about it, Sam still knows it's true. The angels didn't smite him, but he's not a hero.

People like him--_things_ like him--can't just settle in. He doesn't deserve it, and neither do they.

-o-

Dean's personalized the house everywhere. From the splash of spaghetti sauce on the rug in the kitchen to the sleek pinups of classic cars in his bedroom, Dean's imprint is everywhere. Dean's style is rugged leather sofas and industrial end tables, tops with wrought iron lamps and a painting of the Grand Canyon, which hangs opposite the plasma TV.

"Nice, huh," Dean says.

The painting looks like motel room art, but the nice stuff--not the dusty, tacky stuff like the places they used to stay at. But the bland kind that normal people see in dentist offices and department stores.

"Yeah," Sam says. "If you like the neutral vibe."

Dean glowers a bit. "Well, you can pick out accessories, too, you know."

Sam wants to laugh. "You just told me I could pick out _accessories_."

"You live here, too," Dean points out.

"Yeah, but..." His voice trails off. But it's not home. But it's not permanent. But it's nothing more than a temporary thing, and the second he wants it, it'll be gone.

"But nothing," Dean grumbles. "You're the one who hasn't made any effort."

Dean's right about that. Sam's room is neat and perfunctory. He has the bare essentials in terms of furniture--the cheapest he could find at the store. And he only picked out the green quilt comforter to keep Dean from buying him a little girl's set adorned with Hannah Montana.

"I mean, you could at least pick out a mouse pad or something for the office. Maybe one of those little desk lamps with the little compartments for paperclips and stuff. You can never have too many paperclips."

"I don't use a mouse," Sam reminds Dean.

Dean rolls his eyes. "You're missing the point," he says. "Until you start decorating, lay of the criticism. Got it?"

Sam gets it and retreats to his bedroom. He reads a book on ancient demon lore for a while, and then pauses to look at his room. His bed is a queen, and he didn't bother with a headboard. His bedside table is sort of flimsy, honey oak in color with spindly legs. There's a single drawer in it that's empty, and Sam consented to picking out a simple lamp. His dresser is long and short, but the top is empty. He has an armoire that he found on sale because it has a long scratch up the front of his cherry veneer. He uses it to house his weapons cache.

With a sigh, Sam goes to his closet and opens it. His shirts are neatly hanging, arranged by color and style. Tucked on the top of the rack is Sam's duffel.

He pulls it out, putting it on the bed. He just looks at it for a moment, and remembers that this is all he carried with him for six long years of his life.

He's already removed and organized the clothes, but there's more in it. Sam opens it, and feels something pull hard in his chest.

Sam lost nearly everything in the fire back in Palo Alto, and he lost most of the rest somewhere between his father's death and Dean's, but some of it is still here. A partially charred biology textbook of Jess's. A salvaged coffee cup that Jess gave to him when they first started dating.

And pictures.

A few of Jess, a few of his childhood, a few of his parents. They are painful to look at, yet Sam turns them in his hands, and remembers.

He lays them on the bed, side by side. Snatches of his former life, pieces of his former self. He's not that person anymore--not the boy Jess loved, not the child his mother died for. Not even the kid his father kicked out of the proverbial house.

Especially not the little brother Dean so loved.

He wants to put them away, because he doesn't deserve the memories. But he decides not to.

They'll stay out, and Sam will buy frames. He'll put them on his dresser and make sure he looks at them each morning. A reminder of what he lost. A telltale sign of how much he threw away. A testament to how far he fell.

Accountability. Penance.

Sam knows he deserves far worse.

-o-

For such a small town, Peace is always buzzing with life. People are outside in the evenings, grilling in their backyards or lounging on their porch swings. Couples take walks and linger in each other's yards, chatting and sharing as if there's nothing more important to do.

Which, Sam begins to wonder, there may not be.

Life in Peace is just simple. It goes on, no matter what people do. The General Store is always out of white bread, but can always be trusted for whole milk. The House of Nails hasn't provided a real manicure in years, but people show up every day to share the latest gossip with Edna. Children do their homework on the cracked cement sidewalks, and people love what they do and do what they love.

Sure, they all complain. About the sweltering heat or poor tacos at the bar. They complain about keeping up the archaic houses and the cost of health care. But none of them mean it.

Sam doesn't understand it, doesn't know what to do with it.

Dean just buys a porch swing and joins them.

-o-

Katherine Lin bets her brother five dollars that she can roll a penny farther than he can.

Thomas agrees, but only under the condition that they have an impartial judge.

Sam, in the front yard, trying to fix the gate, is their first choice.

Sam tries to decline, but they've already dragged him to the street and are priming up to go when a racket comes from the house next door.

It's Delores and Everett--yelling and screaming again, like they've actually got something important to say.

Thomas pauses, looks at his watch. "They're getting a late start today," he says.

"I ought to divorce your lazy ass!" Delores screams.

"Please, do, you ghoulish old witch!" Everett hollers back.

"That's a new one," Katherine tells him, matter-of-fact. She sounds impressed.

"Do they always do this?"

Thomas and Katherine look at him. "Only when it's nice out," Katherine says.

"What does that mean?" Sam asks.

"When it's raining, no one can hear them, so what's the point?" Katherine says, and she's so straightforward about it, that Sam can only gape a little.

"They just know their part," Thomas continues for his sister. "Every town needs a fighting couple, so we've got Everett and Delores."

"Really?" Sam asks.

The kids nod.

"So who am I?" Sam can't help but ask.

Katherine smiles. "You're our judge," she says. "I can't imagine anyone better for the job."

Sam can think of a few dozen or maybe a few million, but he doesn't have the heart to back talk to an eight-year-old girl.

For the record, Katherine's penny goes farther. Thomas' does the cooler spin.

Both kids go home happy. Sam goes home confused.

-o-

Sam finds Jefferson's library after they've lived there three months. It's upstairs, behind a fake back to the closet in Sam's bedroom. Sam's trying to pull a belt of his closet, but the buckle is stuck on something. When Sam investigates, the entire panel slides away. He ducks inside in wonder.

It's not as dingy as Sam might have expected for a hidden room. But then, he figures, that's probably because Jefferson may have had hidden it, but he used it often.

Still, it's dusty. There's a small circular window that peaks out the side of the house. A bare bulb hangs from the ceiling. There's a long card table, scattered with bottles of herbs and spices and other miscellaneous things Sam recognizes from the hunt. The entire back wall is covered with built in bookshelves. They look mismatched and parsed together at random, but they're covered with books.

Sam walks closer, fingering the spines. Ancient druid myths. Medieval traditions. The history of witchcraft. The topics are as diverse as they are detailed, and there's even an entire section devoted to common sense remedies and critical first aid skills.

It makes sense, now, why Jefferson left it to them. It had to stay with hunters, people who would appreciate it all. Sam didn't know Jefferson all that well, but he was a reclusive man, with few acquaintances and even fewer friends. Tough as nails and well read on the supernatural, which are good things for a hunter's life, but not so good as a legacy to leave behind.

Hunters beget hunters.

This house, this town--they may be Dean's inheritance.

This room, these aging books--these are Sam's.

-o-


	2. Chapter 2

PART TWO

-o-

Dean takes news of the library in stride. He checks it out with Sam, and they scour it for anything hidden or sinister that may need watching. They come up empty, and Dean shrugs it off, and offers to take Sam out for a drink instead.

"Don't you want to keep looking?" Sam asks.

Dean looks around the room and makes a face. "For what?"

"For--something," Sam says. "Jefferson left this to us for a reason."

"Yeah, and he left us his impressive life's earnings for a reason, too," Dean says.

"But--there's more to figure out," Sam insists.

"Dude, when you start coming up with real questions to ask about this place, we can spend all the time in here you want. Right now, the only question I have is why there's not a beer in my hand. Unless Jefferson has a six pack stashed behind those books, I think we've got to look elsewhere."

Sam feels the need to protest, because there are answers in this place. Because Sam likes answers. He's tired of the questions.

Dean nudges his arm. "Let's go," he says.

Sam gives the room one last wistful look, and follows his brother out, taking a small solace that this will be here when he gets back.

-o-

Dean sets up shop in the garage out back. His first project is to treat the Impala to an in-depth check and clean, until she's pristine and perfect parked in front of the house.

Dean wakes up early to go out there. He drinks his coffee while he stretches his back and looks over car parts.

Sam usually leaves him be. He remembers their time at Bobby's after Dad died and Dean's stubborn insistence to do it all himself. He knows that he doesn't have the skills, and he'd just throw Dean's timing off, so he sits in the library and listens to the sound of metal on metal coming from the garage.

-o-

The library is shaping up. Sam has to reinforce the bookshelves, and he finally just takes all the books off because they're all a jumbled mess. Some of them are covered with dust and others are well worn around the edges. One or two seem fragile in his hands, and he's fairly certain they're ancient.

He treats them with care, and sorts them into categories, and is sure to wipe the dust from the covers and gives each one the chance to breathe.

He spends hours in there--almost every free moment he has. He can't explain how good it feels to be doing _something_, to be serving a _purpose_ for the greater good. He's staying in Peace for Dean, but he needs to keep up the library for himself.

Dean grumbles about it, though. "We live in the same freakin' house and I never see you."

"It has to be done," Sam tells him.

"No, it doesn't," Dean says back.

"Don't you think that's part of why Jefferson left us this house?"

Dean just shakes his head and levels Sam with a knowing stare. "And don't you think there's more to it than that?"

Sam just closes his mouth and juts out his jaw. Sam's doesn't think, and he's pretty sure he doesn't want to. Because there are question of worth and purpose and evil that Sam knows he should face, and can't just yet. Not while Dean needs a brother.

So Sam will keep his library, and Dean can keep his happy ending, and it's the best Sam can hope for.

-o-

Dean comes in for lunch, greasy and sweaty. He smiles, collapsing in a kitchen chair like his life depends on it. "We need an air conditioner in here," Dean says. "Don't you just roast upstairs?"

Sam shrugs, taking a bite of his meal. Since Dean's out working, Sam's taken over the house by default. He's learned to cook a few basic meals, some meat and vegetables and a lot of pasta. Cooking doesn't seem to quite fit him, but it's borne of necessity. Besides, Sam let go of his pride years ago, and Dean's usually too tired to snark at him, even if things are scorched or a little underdone.

Dean tears into his with alacrity and talks to Sam through bites of food. "I can't believe how much I've missed it," Dean says. "Time to think and work. Time to _be_."

And Dean's happy. He's as happy as Sam's ever seen him, and Sam can't mess that up.

It almost defies logic, but not quite. Dean's done his time. Dean's made his sacrifice. A hero deserve a happy ending, and Sam owes his brother that.

So he smiles. He can't think of anything to say, and just hopes that's enough.

-o-

Sam gets an email from Bobby. At first, he's so surprised by the fact that Bobby uses email, that he doesn't think to be surprised by the message.

It's a request for help.

Bobby's been their go-to guy for as the past few years, and he's played father more than John Winchester had most of his life. He's solved cases when Sam and Dean couldn't see straight, so the idea that Bobby is seeking him out...

Of all people, _Sam_. Given what Sam had done...

All the more reason Sam can't refuse him.

-o-

Thomas Lin has a school project.

"I have to interview someone who has a good life story. I thought about Sylvie, but I didn't want the interview to take five hours."

Thomas Lin is obviously a bright boy.

So why he's asking _Sam_ is sort of a mystery.

"You don't want to interview me," Sam tells him quickly.

"It'll only take twenty minutes," Thomas promises. "Thirty, tops."

Sam is already shaking his head.

"But you're interesting," Thomas says. "Your brother says you've got one hell of a story."

"Aren't you a little young to swear?"

"It was a direct quote," Thomas assures him.

Sam is not reassured. "Not all stories are good," he tells the boy.

"But those are usually the best kind," Thomas says, and a note of excitement rises in his voice. "I mean, Dean says you two traveled the country. You've seen awesome things. There's a story there, I'm sure of it."

Sam's sure of it, too, which is the problem. There's a story of human weakness and how everyone has the capacity for evil. There's a story of failure after failure until there's nothing left. There's a story of how one man can destroy the world, on selfishness and pride alone.

In the end, he sends Thomas to Dean.

When he hears his brother's voice drift conversationally on the summer air, he knows he made the right choice.

-o-

"That was some good research you did there," Bobby says, a note of pride in his voice.

Sam wants to shrink away, even if Bobby's hundreds of miles away.

"You ever think about doing this professionally?"

"Professionally?"

"Be the go-to guy. A resource center," Bobby says. "I've done it for years, and Jim Murphy was one of the best. It keeps you in touch with the hunting world without having to go out yourself. Keep up your libraries, keep up your connections. It don't pay squat, but it makes you feel pretty damn useful when you ain't got nothing else."

Sam isn't sure how Bobby knows exactly what Sam needs, but it only matters that he does.

"You want me to give your name out?"

"Yeah," Sam says, because it's the least he can do for the world. "Yeah."

"Alright, boy," Bobby says. "Real name and contact info?"

It's a good question, and one Sam has considered. He had wanted to take an alias the minute they got to town, but Dean wouldn't hear it.

And Sam doesn't deserve to hide. He's made his choices and he has to live with them. Sam Winchester doesn't get second chances. This is his penance and the more it hurts, the more it scares him, the more right it probably is.

"Yeah," Sam says. "Real everything. I'm done with lies."

"Okay," Bobby says, and Sam can hear the resignation in his voice. "Just...be careful."

Bobby's worried about what might happen to Sam. Sam's just worried what might happen to the world.

-o-

Sam doesn't often choose to go out, but sometimes it's necessary. Dean does drag him places every now and then, but the times Sam goes on his own are few and far between.

Not that anyone in the town would ever seem to notice.

Everyone who sees him smiles broadly, waves wildly, and usually stops him with some barrage of questioning that Sam can't understand.

But when he runs out of pens, he knows he's out of luck. Dean's busy at work and Sam has no choice but to go on his own.

He actually makes it the short distance to the General Store without too much trouble. He is stopped briefly by Mrs. Lin, who asks him if he prefers daisies or tulips. He tells her daisies and she smiles triumphantly before letting Sam continue on his way.

When he gets to the store, he's sort of wishing he hadn't come, but it's some comfort that the place is empty except for Erick at the front counter.

Erick's flipping through a magazine, a straw coming out of his mouth as he drinks slowly on a large pitcher of fountain soda. The store's one fan is blowing right behind him, oscillating with pained squeaks that Erick seems not to notice.

When Erick looks up, he frowns. "You don't usually come in on Wednesdays," he comments.

Sam shuffles a little. "It's Tuesday."

Erick considers this. "Do you usually come in on Tuesdays?"

Sam offers a meager and apologetic smile. "Uh, no," he says. "I just needed some pens."

"Oh," Erick says, his voice brighter. "Aisle two, and we've got a full assortment. Just got in some of those clicky ones. I love the clicky ones."

Sam finds aisle two.

"So what kind of writing are you doing?" Erick asks.

Sam looks at the pens, from colored ink to erasable to ballpoints. "Uh, just some personal research."

"Ah, always the scholar then," Erick says. "I used to be like that."

Sam looks at Erick, but the young man is completely serious. The fact that he is probably two years younger than Sam does not seem to have occurred to him. "So, what happened?"

"Well, I had this full ride to Texas A&M and I loved it," Erick explains. "I did three years there, and they are still some of my best years."

Sam feels his heart rate increase. He grabs a bag of plain black pens from the rack and doesn't look up. "Why'd you leave?"

"The day before I was supposed to go back for senior year, my dad took me aside. He told me that he loved me and was proud of me. Then he told me he was leaving my mother for another woman, and that he was sorry but it was something he needed for himself, just like I needed school."

At that, Sam does look up. Erick's eyes are far away. "I'm sorry."

Erick just shakes his head a little. "So I told him it wasn't what I needed, that I didn't need school or a degree. I just wanted to be the best person I was, and that he couldn't use me as his excuse."

Sam's mouth is dry and his throat is tight. He thinks about his father's quest. He thinks about Dean as an older brother. He thinks about how going to college was just as much about being a person for the first and only time in his life as it was about getting away.

"So I didn't go back," Erick says with a shrug. "I will do anything for my family except be their excuse. So I started driving the opposite way of school and ended up here. Sylvie took me in and I've been here ever since. I've been asking my mom to join me ever since. I think she'll take me up on it one of these days."

"Do you ever talk to your dad?" Sam asks softly.

"I was mad at him, but not stupid," Erick tells him. "Nothing's unforgivable. Not even that."

It's a story that is sad and happy, mournful and hopeful. Sam wishes he had that chance still, but his choices have defined him and the end results are harsh and clear. Where Erick found his worth, Sam found the lack of his own, and where Erick found a second chance, Sam could only find penance.

"So you find your pens?" Erick asks, seeming to really look at Sam again.

Sam shakes himself a little and looks down. "Oh, yeah," he says. "I just--needed to pick out the right pack."

"Well, they're two-for-one this week, so you ought to stock up."

Sam nods absently and looks at the back in his hand again. They'll get the job done, no frills or questions, and that's all Sam needs. But he hesitates and sighs. Putting the pack back, he picks up a few packs of the clicky ones in all different colors, just because.

-o-

Sam's first contact is Hank Bratton. He's surprised to hear from him, to say the least. They haven't talked since their negative encounter in Oklahoma, when Sam let Hank and his buddies go into a hunt and come back one man down. Of course, Hank had returned the favor by trying to shove demon blood down Sam's throat and threatening the one thing that mattered more than his life.

It's odd, but his voice sounds happy, and Hank engages Sam in small talk about life and the weather before he brings up his latest hunt.

"So, do you think you can help?" Hank asks.

For a second, Sam doesn't quite hear her, because he sounds like he's still telling him about the weather.

When he realizes what Hank has said, he's too dumbfounded to quite know what to say. "Well. I."

"Oh, I just thought--I mean, Bobby said you had a library now, and a pretty damn good one."

Sam swallows. "Yeah. Uh. I do."

There is a pause. Then Hank replies awkwardly. "Well, if it's too big a deal--"

"No," Sam says. "I just--I wasn't sure you would--you know."

He sighs a little on the other end. "I spent a lot of time being mad at you," he says. "And I did wonder if you were evil or not. They were just natural questions, I think, ones I couldn't help but ask. I thought about hunting you down, like I said I would."

Sam nods, even though Hank can't see him.

"I know what the demon told me. I know what you've done. But I also know about the reports I've heard from other hunters about you and your brother since then. In the end, the good outweighs the bad. That's the best any of us can hope for. I didn't know that then. But I know it now. I mean, it's not like any of us came out of this whole thing without doing things we're not proud of, you know?"

It's a beautiful absolution, as much as Sam has ever wanted, which is why it hurts him so much. It's something he doesn't deserve. "Hank," he begins, and his voice is strained.

"I just need to know about the hunt, Sam," he says, and his voice is soft and hard all at once. "Will you help?"

There is so much more to say, so much more to confess, but Hank has made his choice, and it's one Sam has to respect. All Sam can do now, all he can _ever_ do, is be what people need him to be, and hope that's enough to lessen the guilt.

"Yeah," he replies, and tries to sound enthusiastic. "Sure."

The thing is--the thing _always _is--that no matter what he does, no matter what forgiveness he's offered, it's never enough.

He can taste Ruby's blood, he can see the dead nurse, he can feel his hands on Dean's throat, he can see the light of Lucifer's rise--and it's _never_ enough.

-o-

Three weeks into Dean's business venture, Sam tells him he's going to get a job. The library is organized but there just aren't enough hunting connections to make it a full time gig just yet. It makes sense to Sam, but Dean protests.

"But I've got a job," Dean says.

"We're not a married couple, and I'm not your housewife," Sam says.

Dean snickers.

Sam glares.

Conceding the joke, Dean rolls his eyes. "I'm just saying, you don't have to."

"I think the shop is a great idea," Sam says. "But it takes a long time to start a business."

"I've got customers," Dean says, defensively.

"Who pay you in corn."

"Damn good corn."

"Corn doesn't pay the cable bill."

Dean rolls his eyes. "Remember the inheritance money?"

"We should still be getting consistent income," Sam says. "And you know it."

Dean frowns.

"It's fine, really," Sam says. "I need something to do with my time."

"What about Jefferson's library? The hunting network?"

"That's not full time and it doesn't pay."

"It _is _full time, and it's more important."

Sam sighs, his frustration bleeding through. "Dean, I _need_ to do this."

"Sammy, this is supposed to be the good life," Dean says. "We've been living our lives for everyone else for as long as I can remember. It's our turn. I want you to _enjoy_ it."

It's an impassioned plea. Sam just sighs. "This is what I want to do."

Dean looks like he wants to argue, but he doesn't. "As long as it's what you want."

-o-

Sylvie's not hiring and Sam can't even make Edna focus long enough to ask her about working there. He tries the bar and Anita smiles at him while Julia ogles him shamelessly from the kitchen. Finally, Chris Porter, who's eating a sandwich at the bar, suggests maybe he check with Tanner.

Tanner lives on the edge of town, in a sprawling house with all the amenities. It's the nicest place in Peace, and Tanner invites Sam in for a beer when he knocks.

"It's about a job, sir," Sam said, fingering the bottle of water he finally accepted. "I was told you might be able to take me on."

Tanner takes a swig and looks at him. "Smart boy like you?" he asks. "Not that you wouldn't be capable, but you sure that's what you want?"

"What kind of work is it?"

"Physical labor," he says. "Of the hardest kind. I need men who can help bale hay and keep the farm running smooth. It's hot and it's messy and it sure as hell isn't easy."

"And the pay?" It doesn't really matter, but Sam needs to know. He needs to know how much his time and effort are worth, as if he can be quantified into an hourly wage.

"Not as much as you'll deserve but as much as I can manage."

"What should I do if I'm interested?"

Tanner sighs, running his fingers over his beard. "Son, you need to think long and hard about what you're asking. I'm telling you, this work ain't fun. I don't wish it on my own children. I don't doubt you can do better. You sure you want it?"

Sam just looks at him. It strikes him as something of a coincidence that he spent so much of his life just wanting to be asked what he wanted. Now that someone does, it doesn't matter.

Sam straightens his shoulders, meeting Tanner squarely in the eyes. "I can start immediately."

-o-

Work is hard.

They start when the sun is just high enough to be hot, and they labor their way through the day. For all the modern advancements, the job is still surprisingly physical, and Sam didn't realize how out of shape he'd gotten until his body is pushed back into it.

Tanner's team is small. There are a few migrant workers who live in Tanner's guest house. There's a pair of boys from New Hope who don't look old enough to be in high school, but they talk to Sam often about their studies in college when they're on break. Tanner works with them every day, and Sam likes that about him, that he's willing to do the work he asks of others. It seems right.

That doesn't make it any easier.

Sam's hands grow new calluses. Where he carried guns and sharpened knives, now he totes bales and hoes fields. Where he trained his muscles for speed and hand to hand combat, they now grow finely tuned for lifting and hauling. His skin burns like it hasn't since he was a kid. For a week, he peels, but then a darkly tanned shade settles in, and his hair streaks with sunlight as it curls with sweat around his face.

Sometimes, during the long hours, he thinks about how he got here. He thinks about the Apocalypse and Lucifer. He thinks about Ruby and the demon blood. He thinks about Dean dying, Dad dying, Jess, his mother. He thinks about why he went to Stanford and how he always thought his fate was a toss up between the American dream and hunting.

This is somewhere in between, too--but just where, Sam's not sure.

He goes back to work day after day, trying to figure it out.

-o-

Dean spends his evenings in the bar, chatting and playing pool. He and Zach Black have a growing feud over who can score higher in darts. Anita starts making him his usual before he even gets in the door and Dean has even picked up some Spanish from Julia.

Sometimes, Sam joins him. He sits at a table, nursing a water, while he watches Dean trade stories with Chris and flirt with Anita.

Other times, Sam stays home, pores over the books in Jefferson's library, and starts serving as a go-to man for a few hunters. Some nights, he sits on the front porch, skimming over ancient rituals to get rid of spirits, and listens to the neighborhood.

The Lin children play with matchbox cars on the sidewalk and the Wanet kids chase each other until they collapse.

Sometimes, he feels like life is going on around him, the good and the easy and the content, and he's so close--it's all around him--but he can't quite touch it. He doesn't _deserve_ to touch it.

And that's something no welcome committee or friendly smile from a neighbor can ever fix.

-o-

Dean works hard. Sam isn't totally sure what he does, because he doesn't have a lot of costumers, but he goes out clean and comes back an oily mess.

When he comes in, he pulls a beer from the fridge, and collapses on the couch.

"Who knew that normal life could be so much work?" Dean muses as he flips, lingering on Oprah.

Sam watches as Oprah waves her hands wildly, a smile on her face. "We could leave," he says.

Dean rolls his eyes and gives a snort. "Yeah, and we could go another year without taking a break just for kicks, too," he snarks. "This is good work. The kind of work that makes you feel better. Hunting was expectations and duty and responsibility. This is just _life_."

Sam doesn't have a reply to that. He watches as the crowd cheers as Oprah delineates their parting gifts for the day.

There was a time when this was what he wanted, when this dream defined him. He can almost remember it if he thinks hard enough.

-o-

Dean heads in to New Hope on the weekends. He doesn't usually come home before morning and, when he does, he hardly ever comes home alone. The girls are pretty and sweet, and Sam is convinced Dean really does love them all in his own way.

Sam stays up late those nights, working by a dim lamp light in Jefferson's library. He's read every book now, and reorganized them for easy access. He buys a printer and types up notes of his own based on his father's journal, and starts filing them in a pair of filing cabinets Sam salvaged from Byron Lin's garage.

He usually falls asleep with his head on the desk and wakes up sore the next morning. When Dean gets back and finds him slouching at the kitchen table, Sam tells him it's because of the lifting at Tanner's farm.

-o-

When Ryker Carter emails about a string of loosely connected murders in southern Ohio, Sam doesn't have the resources he needs to get the job done. He can't say for sure if it's a pattern or not based on the sketchy evidence Ryker has, and the information is so obscure that not even his usual internet sites are yielding many results.

The drive into New Hope is short. Dean lets him borrow the Impala, and it's not hard to find the library. The building is old and the facilities are cramped, but when the librarian shows him the microfiche section, he knows it's just what he needs.

There's something oddly soothing about this, about hitting the grind, research in its truest form. Sometimes, Sam thinks this is all he was ever meant to do. That this, the nitty gritty of the hunt, _is _his destiny, and that his biggest mistake, the thing that cost him the most, was trying to fight that to begin with.

How much different would it have been, to give up Stanford, to give up Jess and normal and _safe_, and just resolve himself to this? What could he have spared his father? His brother? The world?

Sam once believed in a world with happy endings and self-made destinies.

Sam was wrong.

And it doesn't surprise him anymore. Sam's made himself a legacy of being wrong. About everything. Good or bad, lies or truth, pure or tainted, Sam nothing if not consistent.

Now, Sam believes this much: hunting is a destiny and a curse, and it's all he has, and it eases into his soul with the comfortable numbness of a snake's venom as it swallows him whole.

-o-

Sam starts going for walks. It's the only way he feels awake in the mornings. Coffee stopped working years ago and actual sleep is hit and miss, but the fresh morning air in Peace seems to do the trick.

The town is quiet then. It's remarkable to Sam how so few people can make so much commotion.

But mornings are different. Simple and subdued. Erick walks his dog and Nina tends her garden and every day Sam has to say hello to Everett next door.

If anyone sleeps less than Sam, it's Everett. By six AM, the old man is already seated on his porch, a hunk of chew between his tongue and cheek.

Every day, Everett spits his greeting and Sam smiles back. It gets to the point where Sam sort of expects it. When it pours one morning and he misses the walk, Sam is drawn down the stairs by a frantic thumping at the front door.

Curious, Sam opens the door, surprised to find Everett hunched over on his cane. He's soaking wet and his glasses are so smudged that Sam wonders how the old man can see at all.

"Everett," Sam says. He swears, his hands flailing a little. "Come inside."

The man just shakes his head, droplets dripping from the white strands of scraggly hair. "So you're okay," he says, and he's sort of surprised and resigned and exhausted all at once.

"Yeah," Sam says slowly.

"You didn't show up," Everett says. "You can't be part of my schedule and then not show up. If you don't show up, then I can't start off with that riveting conversation and then I'm just going to be in a foul mood all day. Metamucil ain't the only way to keep regular."

Sam's pretty sure that's more information than he needs, but there's something oddly endearing about it all, even thought it's too _weird_. "Everett," Sam says. "It's raining."

"You think I don't know that?" he says, and he's cross about that. "Damn near slipped on my ass five times walking over here to check on your sorry self."

"But--" Sam begins, but he looks at Everett--really _looks _at him. Looks at the old man who is grisly and crass, difficult and abrasive, and, whether Sam wants to admit it or not, part of his life. He nods. "I'm sorry."

Everett nods. "Damn right you're sorry," he says. "Now, you help me back over there, hear?"

Sam rustles for the umbrella in the coat closet, and opens it over Everett's head. Together, they shuffle out into the deluge, and Sam feels torn between feeling thankful and feeling terrified.

-o-

They're eating dinner at the bar, when Caris and Levi come in. It might have surprised Sam that the preacher and his wife were in a bar were it not the only eating establishment in town.

Caris smiles warmly at them, and Levi leads her by the hand. They settle in the table next to them, and Caris leans over almost immediately. "We haven't seen enough of you two!" she says.

Sam figures she's right; the Johnsons are some of the few people in Peace they don't see daily.

Dean chews on his sandwich, and offers her a smile back. "I've been trying hard to get Sammy to come out more, but he seems to becoming anti-social in his old age."

Sam winces and turns it into a benign smile.

"I hear you've been working hard out at Tanner's place," Levi says conversationally.

"It's good work," Sam says.

Caris nods. "Money is hard to come by in this town," she agrees. "Sometimes I don't know how we'll get by each month, but the Lord is good. He provides."

"He does indeed," Dean says, and it still makes Sam startle to hear his conviction.

"We'd love to see you boys in church someday," Caris continues. "I mean, it's not much of a service, but there's always room for two more."

Dean swallows and seems to think about that. "Well, it's not like we'd have far to go," he says.

Sam blanches at the realization that Dean's considering it.

Caris laughs and Levi joins her, placing a hand delicately around the back of her chair. "We could use the fresh blood," he says. "The Lord has a plan for you two. I can just feel it."

Sam knows the man means well, and it's a nice sentiment. And Sam hasn't met God, so he can't say for sure, but he knows the angels and he knows who he is and what he's done. He's pretty sure God doesn't have time for someone like him.

"Well, we'll check it out," Dean assures them.

It takes all Sam has not to kick his brother under the table.

Before Caris can reply, Anita comes up to take their order. Sam uses the distraction to glare his brother. Dean gives him a confused look back and shrugs.

Sam wants to say something--wants to say a lot of things--but he glances over toward the Johnsons, who are still in earshot, and he pulls himself back.

-o-

There's a hunter named Reginald who calls Sam about a poltergeist in Mississippi. Apparently, burning the bones didn't work, and neither did trying to reason with the thing. The body count is rising, and Reginald had heard that Sam might be able to help him.

Sam finds him a banishing ritual--it's old and it's complicated--but it should do the trick.

-o-

Sam stops by the General Store to pick up some milk for dinner.

He's surprised when Erick's not there, but Zach is. The kid is tall, but looks dwarfed behind the counter, a bright green apron around his neck. "Is that all?" Zach asks.

Sam just nods.

Zach scowls a little, licking his lips as he looks from the milk to the cash register and back again. Then, he grins a little, sheepish. "You sure you don't want a coffee?"

Sam raises his eyebrows. "The milk's good thanks."

Zach lets out a breath, and looks seriously at the cash register again. He pokes at a key, then makes a face before picking up the milk and examining its label.

"Problem?" Sam asks.

"I just--can't figure it out," Zach says, putting the milk down. He looks miserable and frustrated and angry all at once. "Sylvie says it's just intuitive, but I can't figure anything in this place out. Not the cash register, not the stock room, not these _people_. It's just not _normal_ and it shouldn't be _so hard_."

Sam isn't sure what to say, so he's grateful when he doesn't have to.

"Boy, you still trying to figure that thing out?" Sylvie asks, sauntering in from the back.

Zach's shoulders slump. "I can't find the milk."

"It's right in front of your face," she says, nodding to the gallon on the counter.

"On the register," Zach says with exasperation.

"Oh," she says. "That's because it ain't there."

"Then how am I supposed to ring it up?"

"Stop looking for things that aren't there, son," she says. "And just go to the source."

Zach just looks confused.

Sylvie pulls off a sticky note from the wall and gives it to Zach. "We always put the price of milk on the wall since it's so prone to changing. Just type it in, and we're good to go."

Zach looks a little crestfallen. He seems to want to protest, but he doesn't quite know how. "I don't know why you make me do this," he says, and he's trying to sound angry, but all Sam hears is hurt. "I'm not good at it."

Sylvie pats him on the arm. "And be damn proud of that," she says. "You can aim for higher things than this."

"Then why do I have to work here?"

"Well, it sure ain't so you learn to use a cash register," she says. "You just need to know how to help other people and let them help you. Now, be a dear, and go see if I've got that DVR thing you bought hooked up to tape Wheel of Fortune before it's too late."

Zach nods a little, drops his head, and ducks out of the store.

Sylvie watches him go before turning back to Sam. "That's $2.33," she says.

Sam is pulling out his wallet. "Is he okay?

"Zachary?"

Sam nods. "He just seems...hard to deal with."

"Don't take it personal, dear," Sylvie tells him. "Zach's still new around these parts. Drove in about four months ago and needed directions. Poor boy nearly stopped breathing right there at my checkout counter."

"What happened?"

"Asthma," she says, shaking her head. "Though, I'll tell you, it's not the boy's lungs that's the problem."

"Then what is?"

"Boy like that, all alone," she says shaking her head. "His momma ought to be around mothering him. I tell you what, though. We took that boy to my spare bedroom and he's been there ever since. Some people fit in here right away; others, it takes some time before they realize they belong. You know what I'm saying?"

Sam thinks he just might.

-o-

Sam is surprised when Dean shows up at home on Sunday morning, dressed in a button up shirt that is tucked into his pants.

Still wearing his boxers and t-shirt, Sam rubs a hand through his tousled hair and looks at Dean curiously. "What are you doing?"

"Going to church," Dean reports.

"You're what?"

"I told them I would. I wouldn't lie about church."

"You lie about it all the time on the hunt."

Dean sighs, rolling his eyes. "We're not on the hunt, anymore, Sammy," he says. "It's about time you figured that out."

It stings a little, and Sam doesn't say anything, sulks a little instead.

"You're going to have to put on something more than that," Dean observes, looking at Sam's underwear.

Sam makes a face. "I'm not going."

Dean looks concerned. "Why not?"

"I'm just not going," Sam insists, and he's not backing down on this one.

"But I told them we'd be there."

"So tell them I couldn't come."

"But you can."

"Then tell them I don't want to."

Dean flattens his lips. "It's not like you to insult nice people, Sammy," he says.

Sam refuses to be baited into this. He quit hunting for his brother. He moved to Peace. He plays housekeeper and he took a part time job--all things he'd do for Dean, things he _owed_ Dean.

But not even Dean can get him inside a church.

Not now, not ever.

Dean finally nods. "Okay," he says. "But when they come calling with cookies, you're so not getting any."

Sam wonders why Dean thinks Sam would have taken any to begin with.

-o-

Sam nearly loses a finger. He's working too fast on too little sleep, and before he even notices, his sleeve catches the machine, almost pulling him in.

He manages to pull away, probably saving his arm, but the teeth of the machine slice his finger in the process.

It burns like fire through him, and at first he thinks he might have severed it clean off. There's blood everywhere and Sam stares at his finger, gaping a little, surprised that it's still there.

Tanner is next to him in an instant, wrapping something around the wound and clamping down hard. "Damn it, son," he hissed.

"I'm sorry," Sam says faintly.

Tanner is leading him away, toward the edge of the barn. Someone is yelling in the background and Sam hears the scuffle of work boots on the hay laden floor.

Tanner is pulling him down and Sam's legs bend obediently. Blood rushes to his head and his ears ring briefly.

"Stay with me, son," Tanner orders. "Do I need to call an ambulance?"

Sam blinks hard and swallows. "No," he says, and he works to pull himself together. He's had worse than this. He's had much worse. "No."

"Well, we need to take a look at the damage before we decide for sure," Tanner tells him. He winces a little. "You ready for this."

Sam nods.

Tanner doesn't look convinced, but he eases the pressure anyway, pulling gently at the handkerchief wrapped around Sam's hand. The movement sends new pain through Sam's entire arm and when Sam sees the blood, his stomach turns a little.

Holding it gently, Tanner looks closely at Sam's hand, rotating it cautiously to get a better look.

"It's deep," Tanner confirms. He shakes his head. "But damn it all, son, if you're not the luckiest son of a gun I've ever met."

Sam raises his eyebrows.

Tanner wraps it again, putting on more pressure. "Hurts like a bitch, I'm sure, but you'll keep your finger."

"Oh."

"You know, most boys would be thanking God for that amount of grace."

"Somehow, I don't think God looks out for me all the time," Sam tells him honestly.

"Son, you just came in contact with a powerful machine. Most men who do what you did lose their entire arm. Some of them have died. And you're going to walk away with nothing but a scar. Do you understand what the odds are of that?"

Sam doesn't know for sure, but Sam does know that Tanner has no idea what he's dealing with. He has no idea that the blood on Sam's hands, the blood Tanner is so intent on _saving_ is the problem to begin with. Sam's very blood is evil; it permeates every inch of who he is.

Seeing it, staining red on his arm and smeared on Tanner's hand, Sam feels a surge of panic. Not for the finger he could have lost, but for what he's exposing Tanner to. Tanner can't be near this. Tanner can't touch this.

"You shouldn't be touching this," Sam says and he tries to pull away. "It's not safe."

Tanner's grip tightens. "You think I'm worried about blood born diseases?"

Sam shakes his head. He would tell the truth if the truth wasn't so hard to believe. "You shouldn't risk it."

Tanner just holds fast, unwavering, and Sam doesn't have the strength to pull away. "Frankly, son, it's a chance I'm willing to take," he says. "And too bad for you, for the moment, I'm stronger than you, so it's a chance you'll have to let me take."

Sam wants to protest, but he doesn't know what to say. He could try the truth, tell Tanner about the demon blood, tell him about how evil Sam really is.

But somehow, Sam knows, it wouldn't make a difference.

There's a frustrating inevitability with that, and Sam has no choice but to acquiesce.

-o-

Dean does not take it well.

He frets more than Alice did and curses worse than Tanner.

"You shouldn't be working there," he gripes, as he manhandles Sam into bed. "It's too dangerous."

Sam still feels a little fuzzy, and now the powerful dose of painkillers in his system is working against him. He blinks sleepily up at Dean and snorts a little.

"It is," Dean insists.

"Dude, we were hunters," Sam says softly, his words slurring a little. It's been a long day, with worry and angst and pain and blood. "This sort of stuff happened all the time."

Dean's eyes flash with something like worry. "Yeah, well, maybe that was too dangerous, too."

"You don't mean that," Sam tells him.

Dean licks his lips and furrows his brow heavily. "There's a reason we left, Sammy," Dean says.

Sam feels sleepy. His eyes blink heavily, and he inhales long and deep. "I thought you said it was a sign."

"Damn straight," Dean says. "We're in Peace, little brother. We're _at Peace_. Why is that so hard for you to accept?"

"It's just a town, Dean," Sam murmurs.

"Right, and it was just your finger."

"I'm fine," Sam tells him. He keeps his eyes open through pure strength of will and looks seriously at Dean. "I'm fine."

Dean's face is screwed up tight, and there is so much he seems to want to say. He sighs instead, scrubbing his hand through his hair. "Someday, you're going to have to be more than that," he says. "Now, get some rest."

It's a suggestion Sam doesn't have the willpower to fight anymore, and he lets his eyes drift close. Pain is there, at the periphery of his awareness, but the steady thrum of it seems more familiar than uncomfortable. The reminder that he's still living, that he still has things left to lose; that he still has dues left to pay. He doesn't think he knows what more than _fine _is.

Not anymore.

Not ever.

-o-

Sam's finger has to be heavily bandaged, but he's forgone stitches. It makes it hard to work, but Sam refuses to take time off. He's mindful of the machines more so than before, but he makes every effort to double his production, just to prove that he's still worthwhile.

His finger throbs, and Sam doesn't use painkiller. He uses the pain to work himself harder. The more it hurts, the better Sam feels.

When the slice finally heals, the scar is vivid and deep. Sam touches it often, letting it remind him. He needs his scars, values them for what they are. Testaments of his sacrifices, meager though they may be. Small pieces of his penance, pieces of the redemption that he will never really earn.

-o-

Bobby calls him about a case in Wyoming that one of his friends is trying to handle. Sam promises to look into it and heads back into New Hope the first chance he gets.

As far as libraries go, the one in New Hope is probably not one of the better one's he's been in. It's small and awkward. There's only one librarian who is ever on duty, a middle aged man named Phil. Phil is skinny and wears plaid sweater vests even in the heat of summer. His glasses are plastic and bulky and seem disproportionate to his skinny face.

But Sam likes Phil. It's hard not to. Phil is so happy to have a patron that he doesn't think twice about the obscure and varied resources Sam pulls out, not even the ones with strong occult references.

Sometimes there are some children around, but they stay in the children's area. There are a handful of little old ladies who stalk the detective novels on a weekly basis. But the research area is almost always vacant, which makes it perfect for Sam's needs.

This is how it is for a while. Sam at his research station, with Phil flitting in and out, asking questions and pulling references he thinks Sam might enjoy. All in all, it's quiet and predictable, it's safe and it's useful. That just about sums up Sam's life.

Then, a girl shows up.

She looks a few years younger than Sam. She has long blonde hair that she parts far to the left. She tucks it behind her ear even when it hasn't moved and she can smile with her eyes alone.

Not that Sam's looking, of course.

Then she smiles at him for real as she settles a few chairs down. She seems to hesitate, before purposefully unloading her backpack.

Sam's cheeks burn red and he turns his attention back to the work in front of him.

He hears her shifting and knows she's looking at him.

Terrified, he pulls his stuff together and tries to look nonchalant as he packs up. He stands abruptly, almost knocking his chair over. He drops a notebook and loses a pen in his haste to pick it up. He's too far into this to back out now, so he pulls his books to his chest and strides out in three easy steps.

When he gets outside, he remembers to breathe. The sun is bright and hot and he leans against the wall of the library and tries to figure out just what his problem is.

Then he laughs, running a hand through his hair. That's a question that has many, many answers, and they aren't the kind he can find in a library.

He takes the time to pack his stuff away properly before he goes back to Jefferson's.

-o-

Sam doesn't think about her.

He doesn't think about her when he takes his walks in the mornings. He doesn't think about her when he's talking to Everett before he heads in to shower. He doesn't think about her when he says hello to Alice Tanner. He doesn't think about her when he's working in the fields or fixing fence along the property line.

He doesn't think about her when he's making dinner. He doesn't think about her when Dean is laughing at the TV. He doesn't think about her when he closes himself into Jefferson's library.

Because Sam doesn't have the right to think about her.

He doesn't have the right to dream or want or _miss_. Sam made his choices; he has to forfeit such pleasure. It's part of the atonement. Repentance. Giving himself what he wanted was a _disaster_. Denying it all is the only way it goes.

But in his dreams, where Sam's willpower gives way to his unconsciousness, he dreams of long blonde hair and the sound of her laugh echoing in his mind.

-o-

It's funny how few people seem to work in Peace.

Yes, Sylvie runs the General Store and Anita and Julia seem to make ends meet at the bar. Edna has the nail salon and Tanner has his farm, but Sam wonders about the rest of them. He sees Chris Porter drive into New Hope some days and he's seen the impressive phone system in the Lins' home, but it strikes Sam that no one has to work too hard for the things they enjoy most.

Yet every morning, Sam is up with the sun and he labors until his muscles burn and sweat soaks through his clothes. He works, rain or shine, until he almost forgets where he is altogether.

Sometimes Sam thinks everyone else is missing the point.

Sometimes Sam thinks it's him who's missing it.

-o-

Dean comes home one morning, and he's glowing.

Dean tends to glow after nights like that, but two sips into his orange juice and Sam knows this is different.

"I met her, Sammy," Dean says. "I met _the one_."

Sam is perplexed. "The one?"

"The girl for me," he says, and he's practically vibrating with excitement.

"I thought Hannah was the one."

"Hannah?"

"The red head?"

Dean shakes his head. "Dude, no. Hannah was--nice. But this--this is different, Sammy. She's _it_. She's the one for me, not just for one night, but for _always_."

It's a little more than Sam can process. "How can you be sure?"

"How can I be sure?" Dean asks. "Because she's everything. She's smart, she's pretty. She's funny and witty and she can talk cars and she's refined. She dresses classy and she's got a career. And a good family. Dude, this is the kind of girl guys _dream_ about."

"And never get," Sam says. "How did you meet her?"

"It was so weird," he says. "I was just sitting there, drinking a beer, and she just comes up to me. She says she doesn't usually do this, but that if she didn't do it tonight, she'd never forgive herself. She sat down, we drank and we talked and we went back to her place."

Sam nods knowingly.

"No, seriously," Dean persists. "We went to her place and _talked_. All night. I told her everything."

Sam sits up straight at that. "You told her everything?"

"Every last detail," Dean acknowledges.

Sam is horrified and terrified all at once. "But--"

"And she didn't care. I mean, sure it freaked her out for a bit, but she got it. She just _got it_. Even with Lucifer and the Apocalypse, she just got it."

"But why would you do that?"

Dean shrugs. "I don't know, it was just _right_," he says. "I trusted the signs enough to get us here, and I couldn't question that she was it. I just knew."

"But what made you sure?"

Dean's eyes twinkled. "Her name is Grace," Dean says. "_Grace_. What other signs do I need?"

"Apparently, none," Sam says, sharper than he intends.

Dean looks hurt. "Come on, Sammy," he says. "This is a good thing. This is why we're here. To make _lives_. The real thing, man."

"Which is why you spill everything to some girl you hardly know? Did you tell her about me, too?"

"Of course I mentioned my stick-in-the-mud kid brother."

"That's not what I meant."

"She didn't care," Dean tells him.

Sam actually recoils. "You did tell her then?"

"You don't understand," Dean tries to explain.

But Sam does understand. He understands that he's a monster and that his only hope in life is to live on his brother's good graces and in the blind eye of others. He keeps his secrets not for his own sake, but for Dean's, for Bobby's, for his father's legacy. If people knew the truth--if all the rumors were confirmed--Sam knows what he would have to do, what he would have to do so Dean didn't have to.

"I thought you did," Sam tells him, and he feels his fear rise with his anger.

"I had to be honest with her."

"And she was just fine with the fact that you have a _monster _for a brother?"

Dean sighs, rolls his eyes. "Sam, I thought we were past that."

Sam laughs, incredulous. "I can't exactly get past it," he says. "It's in my blood."

"No one is using that word around here but you, little brother."

But Sam still hears it. He hears it all. _Freak. How far from human. If I didn't know you, I would hunt you. It makes you a monster, Sam. _

Monster.

Dressed in button up shirt and jeans and living in Peace, Alabama: Sam Winchester is still a monster.

He doesn't know whether to cry or scream or to just go upstairs to the library, lock himself inside, and blow his brains out once and for all.

"Sam, I promise," Dean is saying. "I wouldn't tell anyone except _her_. She's the one. I'm going to marry her, dude. I'm talking the rest of my life, two-become-one kind of crap."

Sam can hear the pleading in Dean's voice. It takes all he has to rein himself back in.

Dean's serious, Sam realizes. Dean's more than serious. Monster or not, Sam owes his brother everything.

He nods.

"She gets it, man," Dean tells him, and it's supposed to be reassuring. "She gets _us_."

Sam nods again.

"Trust me."

Sam doesn't have the heart to agree but doesn't have the right to refuse. He nods instead.

"Are you going to say something?" Dean asks, sounding as desperate as he does hopeful.

Sam swallows hard and looks up, meeting Dean's eyes. "I just--need to be alone," he says.

Before Dean can reply, Sam's already up the stairs. He closes his bedroom door behind him and curls up on the bed. Squeezing his eyes shut, Sam remembers Ruby's voice telling him it was his choices, it was him all along.

He believes it, now. He believes it.

-o-

They don't talk for a week.

It's their biggest fight since everything went down, and Sam knows he shouldn't be like this, but he can't stop himself. He's tried so hard to make amends for what he's done, and part of him always figured he didn't have a right to be angry at his brother anymore about anything. So he tolerates the drinking and the girls. He tolerates the random desires. He tolerates settling down in some nowhere town. He tolerates working a dead end job that leaves him tired and wary. He tolerates staying here because it's for _Dean_, so he's not sure why he's having trouble with this one.

Maybe Sam likes to pretend that if they don't talk about it, it isn't real. Maybe he likes to think that if people don't know about what he's done, what he _really _is, then he won't have to be a freak. Dean's called him a freak all his life, and Sam will take it now, even if he hates it.

It occurs to him, as his throat tightens every time he sees his brother, that maybe if he's this upset about it, he's not as repentant as he thinks he is. If it still upsets him, that means it's still real.

It reminds him even more why he has no right to keep Dean from happiness.

And Dean is happy. Dean is very, very happy. With Peace, with Jefferson's house, with the garage, with Grace. He calls her every night and Sam can hear his brother laughing through the thin walls.

Sam has no choice.

That night, over dinner, Sam pushes mashed potatoes around his plate. "Grace, huh?"

Dean looks up surprised. "What?"

"Her name is Grace?"

His brother's eyes narrow. "Yeah," he says.

Sam smiles ruefully. "That is one hell of a coincidence," he says.

Dean just grins. "A little more than that, Sammy," he says.

"Yeah," Sam says. He sighs. "Probably."

It's not that Sam doesn't believe in signs, if he's honest with himself. It's that Sam believes all the signs in the universe will point Dean in one, solid, sure, inevitable direction: away from Sam.

And more, Sam believes that it's the right thing.

He just can't stop it from hurting.

-o-

It's two weeks until he goes to the library again. And this time, the girl is already there. She's seated in a microfiche station, head bent over the lens. She looks up when Sam comes in and she's still squinting a little, but she smiles.

Sam tries to smile back without smiling at all and slips into the farthest station he can find.

There's a lull and Sam thinks she's gone back to work, but instead she says, "You come here often?"

He glances at her. She's leaning toward him and looks more than vaguely interested. He shrugs. "Every couple of weeks."

She nods. "You know, the library in Wedowee has more books," she says. "Better facilities, too."

"I like the microfiche collection here."

She grins. "That makes sense," she says.

Sam nods a little in reply and continues to set up his station.

"They do have nice microfiche," she agrees from across the room. "You can't beat that microfiche."

Sam's more than a little flustered.

She laughs a little. "Not much for conversation then?" she says.

He doesn't want to offend her, but he doesn't really know what she's looking for. "No, I--I just have a lot of work to do."

"Yeah," she says with a sigh. Then her eyes twinkle a little. "Well, I hope you have a productive day."

Sam looks at his stuff. "Um. Yeah," he says and he offers her a fair approximation of a smile. "You, too."

Sam makes some progress, but not as much as he would like. He spends half the time feeling like she's looking at him and the other half looking to see if he's right.

When she leaves two hours later, she singsongs a goodbye and walks so close to him that he catches the scent of soap lingering on her skin.

Needless to say, he's less productive after she's gone, when all is said and done.

-o-

Dean has never been so happy. Smiling, humming, cracking jokes. Dean's so alive, he's practically vibrating, and the intensity of it all almost makes Sam want to hide.

Dean's not really home for dinner much these days, and he's not home for breakfast, lunch, or bedtime either. It seems to be all Dean can do to show up in time to open the garage for his customers, and, even then, Sam can hear his brother on the phone nearly all the time, laughing and talking and loving.

When Sam does see Dean, it's always about Grace. Dean has stories about Grace at work. He has stories about Grace's apartment. Dean has stories about Grace's childhood.

Dean is so happy, and Sam has to be happy for his brother. This is what his brother has earned. After all the years of service and sacrifice, Dean has earned these things.

At this point, Sam's not sure what else there is to know about Grace, but Dean never ceases to amaze him.

One day, Sam learns that Grace is an only child. Her parents died when she was eighteen and she visits their graves every February to commemorate their deaths.

The next day, Sam learns that Grace rents her apartment in New Hope, even though she has the money to buy anything she wants. Her parents were wealthy, but Grace doesn't want the money. Most of it sits in trusts funds and savings accounts. She doles out her annuity checks to charitable causes around the world and scrapes by month by month on the meager sales from her art gallery. She does commissioned paintings, abstract and bold, and Sam is surprised that just one sale a month can tide her through.

Another day Sam learns that Grace is a size four and she eats all the time but she can't keep the weight on. She keeps her hair long and never blow dries it, but it always looks awesome.

In all, what Sam knows more than anything, is that his brother loves this girl, loves her more than Metallica and cars and Peace and this house. Maybe more than anything.

-o-

Sylvie wants the counter rearranged.

"But I don't know how," Erick laments to Sam.

Sam just wants to buy his milk and the frozen dinner he's hoping to make himself, but it's pretty clear he's not getting out of there until he helps Erick come up with something.

"Try moving the gum," Sam suggests. "To the other side of the counter. Most people are right handed anyway, so they'll be more inclined to pick it up."

Erick considers there, then looks at Sam dumbfounded. "But it's always been here," he says.

"Isn't that why Sylvie wanted you to change it?"

"But why change things that _work_?"

Because change is inevitable. Because sometimes things that _work_ aren't enough. Because sometimes there's something _better_.

Tears sting at the back of Sam's eyes. He leaves Erick and his milk and his frozen dinner, and goes home to the empty house. He sits in the living room and stares at the wall and wishes he were somewhere else.

-o-

There's a knock on the door. Sam would ignore it if he could, but if he doesn't, someone will just walk right in and find him there.

When he opens the door, it's Sylvie. She has his milk and his frozen dinner and she's got a package of Oreos under her arm for good measure.

"I think you forgot these," she says, holding them out.

Sam takes them. "Thanks," he says flatly.

"And take these, too," Sylvie insists, handing him the Oreos. "I told that damn boy to just mix it up a little bit. Not to scare away the customers."

"He doesn't like change," Sam says softly.

"And who says it's about _liking_ change?" Sylvie asks, shaking her head. "People like to think we can stay the same, but it ain't true. Either we go forward, or we go backwards. The troubles I've lived through are Hell enough. I'll take the ones I'm not sure about any day."

Sam just looks at the frozen dinner and he looks at the milk. He looks at the cookies and wonders what he's really supposed to do with them.

Sylvie touches him gently on the arm. "Aw, sweetie," she says. "I wish you could see it."

Sam looks at her. "See what?"

"That what's ahead of you really ain't so bad."

Sam cocks his head. "I--don't understand."

Sylvie smiles, giving his arm one last squeeze. "Enjoy your dinner," she says. "And I expect those cookies gone, you hear? Don't even share with that brother of yours. The hog would eat them all without blinking."

Sam tries to smile but tries harder not to cry as Sylvia shuts the door behind her.

-o-

Sam throws his frozen dinner in the trash. He drinks the entire carton of milk and eats half the cookies.

He goes to bed feeling full. Maybe for the first time in a long time.

-o-

The day is hot and when Sam gets home, he feels exhausted. The physical labor is draining, intense and encompassing. It's restricting and oppressive and there are nights when Sam gets home and thinks it would be so much easier to take off and never come back to any of this again.

But Dean is home, and he's got dinner on the table. It's a pizza from New Hope. The cheese is a little cold and Sam's not really a Meat Lover's kind of guy, but he's hungry enough that it doesn't matter.

It strikes Sam when he's halfway through his fourth piece, that his brother's nervous. Picking at his food, laughing too quickly, and fiddling with his beer cap.

"What's wrong?" Sam asks, wiping his greasy fingers on his napkin.

Dean raised his eyebrows. "Nothing's wrong," he says. He smiles. "Can't a guy just want to buy his brother a pizza?"

Sam takes a hard drink, and shakes his head. "You're acting funny," he says. His mind goes through all the possibilities. The car, the garage. Something in town. Bobby. "Is everything okay with Grace?"

"Grace is--awesome," Dean says, and he blushes a little.

"Then...what is it?" Sam prods.

Dean fidgets for a second, before he leans forward. "She wants to meet you, man," Dean says.

Sam stills. "She wants to meet me?"

"Yeah," Dean says. "She says I talk enough about you, she might as well already know you."

Sam stiffens a little. "Everyone wants to come stare at the freak."

"What?" Dean asks. "No--Sam, it's not--like that. We don't talk about _that_."

"But you have," Sam observes.

"Sure, but we talk about more than that."

"Can't leave out the part about how I started the Apocalypse," Sam says, with a nod. "That part wasn't due to the freak in me, it was just due to the prideful addict."

Dean purses his lips. "Sam--stop," he says, and his voice grates a little.

"It's true, Dean."

"And it's in the past, Sam," Dean shoots back.

"Doesn't mean it doesn't matter."

"And it doesn't mean that's all there is," Dean snaps. He pulls himself together and takes a breath. "Look, it's not a big deal. I'm serious about her, man. I love her. I want you to meet her, too."

It hits Sam hard and weighs him down. _I love her_.

Signs--Sam believes in these signs. The ones that say _you can't keep him_ and _you don't deserve him_ and _he deserves better than you_.

But he nods. "Yeah," he says, not because he wants to meet her. Not because his opinion matters. But because this is the game Dean wants to play, and Sam owes him this. Sam owes him everything. "Okay."

Dean hesitates. "Okay?"

Sam shrugs. "Okay, I'll meet her."

Dean's face lights up. "Really?"

"I said I would," Sam replies.

Dean claps his hands. "That's _awesome_," he says. "Just wait until I tell her. And you're going to love her Sam. She's just--I don't know--"

"Awesome?" Sam ventures.

Dean grins. "Totally."

Sam nods, looking back down at his half-finish piece of pizza. "Awesome," he says. "It was kind of a long day. I think I'm going to turn in early."

"But you haven't finished your pizza yet," Dean points out, a hint of concern in his voice.

"I'm not very hungry anymore," Sam says. He pushes to stand and pauses, looking at his brother. "I'm happy for you."

Dean holds his gaze, nodding a little. "Thanks, Sammy."

Sam offers the ghost of a smile and heads to his room.

He hears Dean a few minutes later, on the phone with Grace. His brother is gushing, excited and effusive, and Sam curls up on his bed and closes his eyes.

-o-


	3. Chapter 3

PART THREE

-o-

Grace is the one who wants to meet him, but Sam's the one who's nervous.

All week, it's on his mind. He keeps screwing up at work. Walking by Everett's house in the morning. When he stops at the General Store to buy another pack of beer for Dean and a few waters for himself, he's so confounded by it all, that all he can do is stand and stare at the refrigerator case.

He's not sure how long he's standing there when Sylvie comes up. "You need some help, sweetie?" she asks softly.

Sam scrunches his nose. "I just...need some--beer," Sam says. "We're out. And some water, too."

"Well," Sylvie says, pulling on her ear a little. "I suppose the thing to do is to pick some out then."

Sam blinks and looks at her. "What?"

She raises her eyebrows. "If you want to buy some, sweetie, you have to pick some up."

"Oh," Sam says and shakes his head. "Right."

"You feelin' alright, son?" Sylvie asks.

Sam looks sheepish. There are no secrets in Peace, at least none that get kept for long. "My brother is bringing home his girlfriend."

Sylvie gave him a sly smile. "So that's why that boy's been glowing," she said.

"Yeah," Sam says. "He's really crazy about her."

"Then she must be some lady," Sylvie said.

Which is exactly what Sam's afraid of. Sam knows he doesn't give much to the brother relationship these days, and he's weak enough to be afraid of losing his brother.

"Ah, Sam," Sylvie says. "You think she's not going to like you?'

Sam thinks about _demon blood_ and _apocalypse_ and goes a little pale.

Sylvie tuts, tossing her head a little. "Sweetie, if that girl knows anything that's good for her, she'll be head over heals for you. Winning the boy is one thing; winning the brother is another."

Sam tries to smile.

Sylvie leans closer. "If it makes you feel better, Dean's been a wreck all week. All jittery and nervous like. Now I know why."

"Sometimes, I'm not exactly people friendly," Sam concedes.

"Oh, heavens, honey," she says. "You think he's worried about her liking you? He's terrified about what you think of _her_."

That's a revelation Sam can't quite fathom and he's staring, a bit dumbfounded, at the woman.

She raises her eyebrows. "Close your mouth, dear," she advises. "Or something's going to fly right in. And that would definitely be an impression for your brother's girl, now wouldn't it?"

-o-

The latest case is from a hunter who knows Hank--a pair of sisters who were murdered by their aunt. The details are gory and the body count is rising even after a traditional salt and burn. Sam alerts the guy to their childhood home, where the aunt apparently left some...pieces behind.

Fortunately, the place is abandoned and boarded up, so torching the whole thing is actually an option. Sam doesn't have it in him to actually recommend arson, but if his subtle suggestions give the guy the idea, then it's no skin off Sam's back.

"Just be careful," Sam says. "Ghosts in the family are hard things. No one can betray you quite like blood."

-o-

"I got a letter," Everett tells him.

Sam takes a sip of his drink. It's a cool evening, and there's a breeze as the sun falls behind the houses across the street. "Yeah?" Sam asks.

"My oldest girl," Everett continues. "She sends 'em every now and then. Tried to talk me into using that internet thing, but it jus' wasn't worth it."

"What does your daughter do?" Sam asks.

"Some kind of sales representative," Everett says. "She mostly writes about her sons."

"That must be nice."

"Good boys, those two," Everett agrees. "Rambunctious as hell. Get that from their mother." Everett smiles at that.

Sam smiles back. "Most boys are."

"I'm just glad they aren't like their daddy."

Sam stretches a little, settling back in his chair. "You don't like him?"

"Don't like him?" Everett asks. He shudders. "Can't stand that boy."

Sam squints toward Everett. "So why do you humor him?"

"Because I adore my girl," Everett says.

And that's the crux of it. Family is family. Dean's picked, and now Sam has to fall in line. Because this is all Sam has. All Sam's ever had. Without Dean, he is alone and purposeless. Besides, he owes Dean this much.

Whether Grace hates him or loves him, Sam knows this is what he has to give to Dean, and he will give it as best he can.

-o-

When Saturday comes, Sam's wound so tight that he goes to the library more to distract himself than to continue his research.

She's there when Sam gets there. They make stuttered conversation while Sam tries to look like he's busy while not thinking about Dean and his girlfriend.

Finally, she just asks, "Am I that bad of company today?"

"What?" Sam asks, startled.

"You are barely looking at me today," she says. She shrugs a little, shy. "I don't mean to bother you."

Sam's eyes go wide and he shakes his head. "No, it's not like that," he says.

She looks a little concerned. "Is everything okay?"

Sam sighs a little, swallowing. "Yeah, it's just--" He thinks of several lies and a couple of deflections and settles on the truth. "My brother is bringing home his girlfriend for the first time."

"Oh," she says and a smile spreads over her face. "Yeah, that would do it. So I take it you're worried about it?"

Sam grins, and ducks his head. "I just--owe my brother a lot," he says. "And if this girl means something to him..."

"Aw," she says. "That's pretty normal."

Sam laughs. "It is?"

"Sure," she says. "When do you have to be there?"

Sam looks at his watch. "Soon, actually. I probably need to go."

"Of course," she says. "Tardiness is so not the right impression."

"No," Sam says. And he hesitates. "I'm--you know, sorry for being weird today."

She waves her hand dismissively. "It happens to all of us," she tells him. "Just don't worry so much."

Sam snorts a little, packing his stuff up. "Like that's possible."

"You want my advice?" she asks, and Sam pauses to look at her. She meets his eyes with a soft gaze. "Just be yourself."

Sam smiles sardonically. "Because you think I'm so awesome?"

She laughs a little. "No, because the real you is the only you that matters," she tells him. "We lie to protect ourselves, not others. You're stronger than that. I know you are."

It's true, Sam knows, because he's led a life of lies. His own and his family's, sometimes he's know more falsehood than reality. But this place is real. And Grace is real, too, whether Sam wants to admit it or not.

"You sure about that?" Sam asks finally, a hint of humor in her voice.

Her gaze is steady and her smile is knowing. "More than you can imagine."

Somehow, it's enough.

-o-

Grace is way out of his brother's league.

She's not from New Hope, is the first thing Sam finds out. No, Grace was born in Hartford, Connecticut, and spent most of her childhood living in major cities around the world. She's been to Europe and South America and lived for a year in Japan. Grace has studied art in New York and even did a summer abroad in Italy.

She's lived a charmed life in every way and was supposed to marry the rich son of an even richer friend of her parents.

But Grace said no, because that's what Grace does. She said no, and the guy was better for it, and still sends her Christmas cards of his wife and daughters.

It makes Sam smile to hear Grace's story. To hear about how she could have had the entire world, but this is what she wants. To hear about how she could have anything, but Dean's the only one who matters to her.

Because Dean is special. And it's about time the rest of the world saw it.

It's about time Dean believed it.

And seeing his brother with Grace. Seeing the way they laugh, seeing the way they _are_, Sam knows that much has finally come true.

Sign from God, indeed. Dean's found his Grace, and it doesn't have to be an angel to be Heaven sent.

It's a beautiful picture, and Sam is so happy for it. He's just not sure where he fits.

He's never sure where he fits. From teen angst, to grieving college drop out, to recovering addict who nearly ended the world, Sam just never knows.

-o-

They're eating homemade tacos. Sam made the sauce and Dean set up the condiments, complete with fresh lettuce and shredded cheese. They stuff their taco shells full and are making a mess of it while they eat, no matter how hard Sam tries.

Dean tells him a story about work, about a car he's got in the shop, and there are technical terms Sam doesn't quite get, but he knows when to laugh at the funny parts.

When the story is over and the conversation lulls, Sam says, "Grace would love that story."

Dean's chewing slows for a moment and he swallows, nodding. "She would."

"She's great," Sam says.

Dean pauses mid-bite. "What?"

"Grace," Sam says. "I think she's great."

Dean blinks. "Really?"

"Yeah," Sam says. He shrugs a little and gives a nervous laugh. "It's sort of obvious. I mean, everything about her is perfect. And you two together--well, I think maybe you're right."

Dean raises his eyebrows. "I'm right?"

Sam slouches a little, pulling in on himself. He looks at Dean cautious. "Grace is the one for you," he says. "There's not any doubt about."

Dean stares at him for a long moment before his face splits into a grin. "Thanks, Sammy," Dean says, and he sounds grateful. Actually _grateful_.

It makes Sam uncomfortable.

"I mean, I know that wasn't what you wanted, and I mean, knowing that she _knew_--"

Sam shifts, wishing Dean would stop talking.

"But it means a lot," Dean says. He nods. "It really means a lot."

Sam blinks, his throat feeling dry. Swallowing hard, he manages a small smile. "Anytime," he says.

Dean smiles back, sure and relieved. Then Sam realizes, that Dean trusts him, will take him at his word.

Somehow, to Sam, that's more than thanks enough.

-o-

Everett has a cold and he's surly that week.

Sam goes by every day, anyway, and even smiles when Everett tells him to go the hell away.

"You told me I had to come by," Sam tells him. "No matter what."

Everett makes a face of disgust and disbelief. "There's living up to something and there's being a pushover, boy," he spits. "You don't need to be confusin' the two. When someone's treatin' you like crap, you have ever' right to call them on their bull-headed junk."

He's right of course, because Everett is always kind of right in his own crotchety way. But when Sam thinks about it--really thinks about--he tries to remember the last time he let himself believe it.

Sam owes the world something, he thinks. He owes the world his service and his respect and anything else it demands of him. Sam's still making amends. Always making amends.

Everett scowls at him. "Yet you're still here."

"It's where I belong," Sam offers.

Everett harrumphs, and concedes, "I believe that much."

They sit there, Everett with his handkerchief and Sam with his glass of lemonade, until the sun goes down.

-o-

Dean is positively giddy.

At first, Sam thinks it's just another good night with Grace, but when Dean actually has breakfast waiting for Sam when he gets back from his morning walk, Sam knows it's more than that.

Sitting down, Sam takes a sip of his juice, eying the pile of sausage links on the plate. "Something I should know about?"

"Just an awesome day," Dean tells him. He sits down across from Sam and grins. "I can make my brother breakfast just because the day is awesome, can't I?"

Sam raises his eyebrows and scoops some eggs onto his fork. "Possibly, yes. Usually, no."

Dean rolls his eyes and stuffs an entire piece of bacon in his mouth. He chews for a moment before saying, "It's coming today."

Sam pauses, cocks his head curiously. "What's coming today?"

Dean's face lights up like a kid on Christmas morning. "A '65 Corvair. She's a classic. Traded her for some service for a farmer out past Wedowee. Doesn't run--and she needs work--but I've seen her frame, and I'm telling you, she's gorgeous. The car of a lifetime."

"You're excited over a car?"

"Not just any car," Dean says. "_The_ car. Better than the Impala."

At that, Sam's a bit incredulous. "You love the Impala."

"But this one--she's going to be all mine," Dean says. "I'll be building her almost from scratch. I'll have to clean out her engine, replace the parts. Do the paint job myself. It's going to take _years_, but she'll be mine and no one else's."

It's not Dean's passion for cars or even his overzealous feminization of the machine, but it's the _years _that gives Sam pause.

They've been here for a while, Sam knows that. But _years_.

There is a permanency about it Sam doesn't understand.

There is a peace about it that scares him.

Dean's so lost in his fantasy, telling Sam about its interior and its detailing, that he doesn't notice that Sam's just sitting there, shell shocked.

When Dean finally does stop to breathe, he looks at Sam, perplexed. "You okay?"

Sam swallows and nods. "Yeah," he says.

"Are you going to eat your breakfast?"

Sam looks down, a little blank. He pokes his fork absently at his eggs again and manages to take a bite.

Dean launches into it again, fast and furious and just so happy that, for the moment, Sam listens to Dean's dreams and pretends they're enough for both of them.

-o-

Sam's backs hurt so much that Saturday, he can barely get out of bed. They've been pushing it hard at the farm, trying to double their weekly goal, and Sam doesn't realize the toll on his body until he is faced with prospect of actually moving.

He lays there for a minute, staring at the cracking plaster across his ceiling, and wonders if it's possible to lay here all day.

But Dean and Grace want to go up to the lake. There's frisbee golf up there, and they bought some burgers and chips to grill out by the water. Sam has tried to get out of it, but there is no room for negotiation.

It's a twisted penance Sam gives for himself. How the hardest thing is to have fun.

Not that it matters unless he can get out of bed.

With a sigh, he closes his eyes. On the mental count of three, he pushes himself up.

The pain flares so bad that his eyes water and he clenches his teeth together. His ears ring and his head swims and his entire body feels like it's on fire.

He breathes through it, in and out, in and out, and when the pain has receded to a dull throb, he gets out of bed.

Of all the days, he knows this is the day to forego the trivialities, but he can't let himself do it. Instead, he makes the bed with slow and measured movements, feeling the uncomfortable tug of muscles as he turns the sheets crisply on the corners. By the time he's finished, he feels ready for bed again, but instead he gets himself together to face his day.

-o-

Sam is so stiff by the time they get back that he can hardly walk. Getting out of the car is awkward, and as Sam is hobbling up the stairs to the front door, Dean demands to know what's wrong.

"My back hurts," he says.

"Since when?"

Sam shrugs.

Dean does not look amused. It's been a good day, and Dean's nose is pink with sun and his freckles are stark against his skin. They lost all their frisbees playing golf and Dean charred the burgers and Grace caught a tadpole in the shallows.

They laughed and they joked and as long as Sam only bent at the knees, things were just fine.

But Dean's like a dog with a bone when it comes to this kind of thing. "Sam."

Sam's shoulders would have drooped if it didn't hurt so much. "It was just a hard week at work."

"Then why didn't you say something?" Dean asks.

Grace has the front door unlocked and she shakes her head at both of them. "Because he didn't want to spoil our day," she says.

"Like that's an excuse," Dean shoots back.

"Winchesters are idiots," she tells Dean. "That's as much your fault as it is his."

Dean glowers. "Why are you defending him?"

"And why are you berating him?"

"Because he's an idiot!"

She smiles. "My point exactly," she says. Then she shoos him inside. "We'll just relax tonight. A few beers, some TV. It'll be good."

Dean gives Sam a look but follows her instructions. He allows himself to be settled on the couch and glares as Sam eases in the chair in the corner.

"Jackass," Dean mutters.

"If you want a beer, you will use no such language," Grace admonishes.

Sam smirks a little.

Grace disappears into the kitchen and Dean flashes Sam the finger. Sam just shakes his head.

Dean flicks on the TV and Grace returns with a pair of beers and a bottle of water for Sam. He accepts it and is actually quite grateful that he may not have to move for another few hours if he drinks slowly enough to not fill his bladder.

"All right," she says. "You ready?"

Sam blinks and realizes she's talking to him. "What?"

Grace clucks her tongue at him and shakes her head. "Lay down."

Sam freezes a little. "What?"

"On your stomach," she says. "Flat on the floor. Lay down."

"Uh, I don't think--"

"Clearly, that is the problem," Grace tells him matter-of-factly.

"Don't argue with her, Sammy," Dean says from the couch. He takes a sip of his beer. "Just do what she says."

Uncertain, Sam slinks off the chair, wincing as he does. It takes some work to get himself on his stomach, and he gives Dean a look of betrayal as he gets there.

He's about to ask what's going on when Grace crouches next to him. She places a firm hand on his back that has Sam tensing with pain and biting back a yelp.

"How did you even get out of bed this morning?" she asks, sounding a little awed, as her fingers press along the muscles of his back.

Sam makes a face. "There wasn't much choice," he says.

She makes a noise in her throat and her hands continue to probe his back.

He feels a protest rise in his throat, but it is cut off by the pressure. Her fingers know what they're doing and find his pressure points just like that, so fast and firm that it takes his breath away.

She digs and kneads with a gentle consistency that Sam can't fight. His questions still, his protests cease, and for five minutes, he lets someone else have control.

When Grace is done, Sam is relaxed and drowsy on the floor. He feels warm and safe and peaceful, and part of him never wants to leave.

"Better?" Grace asks.

Sam cranes his head a little to look at her. Dean is standing next to her now, shaking his head. "Sheesh, Sammy, those were some seriously happy noises for a purely platonic back rub."

Sam glares at him and Grace rolls her eyes. "So if you were watching, does that make it a threesome?"

Dean's nose scrunches, and he pales a little. "There's no room in this relationship for three," Dean says. "Sorry, Sam."

Grace just smile, snaking an arm around Dean's waist. "Three is a requirement," she says, giving Sam a warm look. She turns her eyes to Dean. "It's just the bed that's made for two."

Dean considers this. "Fair enough," Dean says. "So no kinky ideas, okay, Sammy?"

Sam mumbles an acquiescence.

"Do you need help up?" Grace asks.

"No, I think I just want to lay here for a bit," Sam admits.

"On the floor?" Dean asks.

"Just for a minute."

"Leave him be," Grace says. "I think we can find plenty of ways to entertain ourselves."

Dean's face lights up, and he hardly needs another word before he's up the stairs, pulling Grace behind him. Sam listens to their footsteps across the floor and the resounding ring of their laughter through the floorboards. He lets his eyes drift closed and, for a few moments, lets himself rest.

-o-

Dean drags him into the bar to eat, settles them at a table, then tells Sam he'll be right back. Before Sam can protest, Dean is out the door, talking to Chris Porter. There's an animated exchange of hands and Dean laughs so hard he almost falls over and Sam knows this is going to take awhile.

Sulking, he fiddles with his menu as Anita comes up. "I thought I saw your brother come in with you," she says.

"He'll be right back," Sam tells her, glancing out the window.

She follows his gaze. "Ah," she says. "Something to drink while you wait?"

"Water," Sam says.

"Anything else?"

"Not until Dean gets back," Sam says.

She smiles sympathetically. "Siblings are difficult by default," Anita says. "We're so close to them that we lose all perspective. We know them better than anyone else, and yet, most of the time, we hardly see them at all."

Sam looks at Dean and considers this. He remembers his own words to Dean, harsh and final: _you don't know me and you never have and you never will_.

It wasn't entirely true, Sam tells himself, but sometimes he wonders.

Sometimes he just does.

-o-

When he's walking back from Tanner's, he sees a gathering at the House of Nails.

He thinks to walk to the other side of the street too late. It probably doesn't matter anyway; as soon as he's in sight, the entire crowd seems to notice him.

The place is usually somewhat full--how, Sam's never sure. He never sees a manicure being done, but people seem to head there all the same.

He doesn't realize that he lingers, but it's enough for the crowd to pounce on him. There is a chorus of hellos, and a brief fluttering of waves. Sam offers a painful smile back and wonders what he should do.

Dean waves him inside. Sylvie is reared back with laughter. Everett and Delores are bickering in the window. Even Zach is there, texting on his cell phone.

It's a quintessential Peace moment. Perfect in every way. Warm and inviting; community and friendship.

Sam smiles a little, waves back, and keeps on walking.

-o-

This time, she's seated in the station next to the one Sam uses.

Sam hesitates, then takes the station closest to the door.

She watches him carefully, but doesn't say anything until he's settled. Then she tilts her head up and tries not to smile.

"I was wondering when you'd be back," the girl asks. "It was lonely here last week without you."

Sam feels uncomfortable. "Oh," he says. He thinks for a moment, trying to come up with something to say. "I'm sorry. I didn't, you know. Think you were expecting me."

She shrugs a little, and licks her lips before she smiles shyly. "Research just gets lonely," she says. "I liked the idea of a study partner. Or, you know, I start talking to the stacks."

"Well, until they talk back, you're probably okay," Sam says.

She laughs. "Wow, yeah," she tells him. "But I have to say, present company is far more preferable."

Sam's heart skips a beat and his stomach flips. His throat tightens and he feels like he's fourteen again and she's the most popular girl in school. The fact that he's an adult now doesn't make it easier, and Sam never has been good with women. That's why the women he's dating have pursued him first, just like this.

Not like this. Sam might have dated when he was younger. When he could still take that risk. When he wasn't a _monster_.

Now, it's a risk he can't take. It's a chance he can't let _her_ take. It's a blessing he can't let himself enjoy.

So he swallows and smiles tightly. "I, uh. Got a lot of work to do."

She nods with as much seriousness as she can muster. "Better get to it then."

Sam nods back, and looks down, his face burning. "Yeah. I," he says. "Yeah."

"Okay," she says after a moment, and she sounds a little disappointed. "To work, then."

They are quiet for the rest of the day. Sam reads an entire book on the history of black arts in early America. He doesn't remember any of it.

-o-

Grace shows up early. Dean's still in the garage.

She smiles at him, and he smiles back. It's awkward. "I can, um, get him for you," Sam offers.

She looks surprised. "Oh," she says. "No. I mean, that's okay."

Sam nods and looks at the floor.

"You know, the three of us should do something together again," she suggests. "I meant what I said. Three is a requirement. We could drive into New Hope and maybe catch a movie."

Sam's heart clenches in his chest and he feels a little pang of doubt in his stomach. It's a nice idea--to be a friends. To be a family.

Sam doesn't know how to have friends. He doesn't even know how to have a family.

Even if he did, he doesn't deserve it. He screwed up enough things in Dean's life that Sam can't see much point in getting close enough to taint Grace, too.

He smiles to hide a wince. "Nah," he says. "You and Dean need some time alone."

She nods a little at his, and wets her lips hesitantly. It looks like she wants to say something, but she doesn't. Instead, she forces a smile that doesn't reach her eyes. "Okay," she says. "I guess I'll just head out back."

"Yeah," Sam agrees. "Okay."

Sam doesn't breathe until the back door closes behind her. Then he flops hard onto the couch, squeezes his eyes shut, and tries not to cry.

-o-

"Pretty girl you boys have there," Everett says one morning.

Sam looks up at Dean's window. The curtains are drawn. "Yes, sir."

"My wife thinks they're a cute couple," Everett says.

Sam looks back at the old man. "Yeah?"

"I think she's nuts," Everett says. "Couples don't need to be cute. They need to work. Do those two work? Your brother and that girl?"

Sam looks to the window again. "Yeah," he says. "I think they do."

-o-

Victoria Waylen is a hunter who used to work with Steve Wandell. She wonders if Sam has any leads on the guy who killed him. She thinks he may even be connected to what happened in Maryland.

Sam tells her he doesn't, and moves all the emails she sent him to the folder he's labeled: _potential problems_.

-o-

Sam can't hate Grace. Part of him wants to, but she's everything Dean said and more.

It's the way she rolls her eyes at Dean's lewd jokes. Equal parts annoyed and amused, with a slight upturn of her lips and a defiant tilt of her head.

It's the way she learns about cars. She'll ask Dean about carburetors and exhaust systems that she doesn't really understand and then just sit back and watch as he goes off on them.

It's the way she fits into the crook of Dean's arm, the place next to him at the table, the routine of his life, the essence of who he is. She is smooth enough to soften his edges and pointed enough to keep pushing him forward. Her jokes are funny and her laugh is full and her soul is pure.

She is Dean's, just like she was born that way. She accepts the secrets and forgives the flaws and appreciates everything good.

More than any of that, she makes Dean happy. That matters more than anything. It's the main thing Sam's failed at in his life, and he cannot deny his brother this solace, he cannot even resent it, even when he understands it for what it really is.

Dean doesn't need him. He never has. But now Dean might just know it.

Sam tries to be glad. Every week, he finds new reasons to let them be alone and figures it's the least he can do.

-o-

The girl is positioned in the middle this time, and it's more than a little obvious what she's trying to do.

Sam wants to humor her, but needs to keep his distance. He settles for a station one down from her.

She smiles at him proudly, clearly recognizing her victory for what it is.

She's so proud of herself that she doesn't even say anything. Her gloating grin is enough as Sam settles in to work next to her.

Sam has conceded the seating issue to her, so he's not going to say hello. He'll just have to be impolite. In all, he's done worse.

He's well aware of her eyes on him, but he presses on, stubborn. She taps her pencil on her paper for a moment before she says, "Bob."

Of all the things he expected she might say, that was pretty low on his list. "What?" Sam asks, eyebrows furrowed as he looks at her.

"So you're not a Bob," she says. "Simon?"

"Uh--"

"Cameron," she tries. "Jared!"

Sam feels a little overwhelmed.

"Gregory. Adam. Wendell."

"Wendell?"

"Your name is Wendell?" she asks.

"No," he tries.

"So what is it?"

"Why does it matter?"

"Because I'm tired of knowing you as 'that guy with the microfiche.'"

"Well--"

"Taylor. Luke. John."

"Look--"

"I can do this all day," she says. "Archibald? Jackson? Tucker?"

"If I tell you will you be quiet?" he interrupts finally.

She grins. "Of course. Paul."

"Sam," he says. "My name is Sam."

"Sam," she repeats. "I like that."

"So what's your name?" Sam ventures.

Her grin turns mischievous. "We can't have all our fun in one week, can we?"

Sam opens his mouth to object, but she turns herself daintily toward her microfiche and gets so intently to work, that Sam just closes his mouth and starts in on his research.

-o-

Dean smiles all the time now. He sings songs under his breath and he's chipper even without his morning coffee.

Sam watches Dean touch Grace gently on the shoulder, nuzzle softly on her neck. Sam sees the way they bend into each other, the way they seem to work in tandem.

Sam remembers that. He remembers the scent of Jessica's lotion and the taste of her lip gloss. He can even hear her laugh when he closes his eyes and thinks hard enough.

He misses her.

He says he has work to do in the library, but when he closes himself in, all he can do is stare at the fading shafts of light coming through the window.

-o-

The day is hot, even for Alabama. The heat is mind bending and soul rending. The kind that starts off oppressive before dawn breaks and just gets worse from there.

Sam makes sure to worker harder those days.

They're in the barn, which provides some shade, but no fresh air. Bailing the hay makes Sam winded on the best of days, but it's nearly overwhelming today.

The fact that the Tanner children are around and bored out of their minds doesn't help.

Sam has half a mind to bury them in hay, but he'd rather not be fired.

They would sort of have it coming, though, if Sam were a vengeful type these days.

A wave of dizziness passes over him, and Sam puts his pitchfork down. With a steadying hand against the stable gate, he blinks a few times to regain his composure.

When he looks up, there's a teenage girl sitting on the door next to him. Sam startles, trying to remember if she'd been there before.

She looks quite serious. "Your brother has a girlfriend," Amanda Tanner tells him.

Sam raises his eyebrows. "Yeah," he says. "He does." There's more to it than that, but the day is sweltering hot and Sam feels weak in his bones.

"She's pretty," she says, matter-of-fact. "And he's hot. They're good together."

Sam makes a face and feels his stomach roil a bit. "Uh. Yeah."

Amanda licks her lips. "What about you?" she asks. "When are you going to get a girl and bring her back? Momma says it's about time there were some babies around here."

The thought of finding a girl is enough of a task as it is. The idea of making babies? Makes Sam a little lightheaded.

Or maybe a lot.

He tries to look at Amanda but his vision tunnels out. His stomach turns hard again and his effort to speak is much weaker than it should be.

"Hey, you okay?" Amanda asks the second before Sam passes out.

-o-

He comes to on the Tanner's couch. It's leather and sticking to Sam's skin. There's a washcloth on his head and his feet are bare, sticking in the air off the end of the couch.

Then there are voices.

"I told you to scram. You've done enough harm as it is."

"I just want to be sure I didn't kill him."

"Dude, is he really dead?"

The first voice cut them off, flat and stern. "If he were dead, he'd be a whole lot more blue and a lot less hot, you hear?"

"Yes, mama," the other voices chorused.

"Now you scram before I sic your father on you."

Footsteps scamper away and Sam realizes his eyes are open. He's staring at the ceiling when Mrs. Tanner comes into view.

"Sorry about them," she says, moving the cloth against his brow. "You feeling better yet, honey?"

"Mrs. Tanner?" he asks.

She flashes him a small. "Alice, sweetie," she says. "Do you remember what happened?"

He closes his eyes for a moment. When he opens them, things are still hazy. "I was in the barn," he says. "Amanda was talking about Dean's girlfriend."

Alice rolls her eyes. "Heavens alive, that girl is a gossip," she mutters. "Anything else?"

"She talked about them having babies," Sam recalls. "Then I got dizzy."

She laughs. "Oh, honey," Alice coos. "A little jealousy is like heat stroke. It happens to the best of us when put in extreme conditions."

Sam crinkles his brow. "What?"

She tsks a little, reaching for a glass of water. She hands it to him gently, her hand hovering near him as he tries to take a sip. "It doesn't make you a bad person," she assures him. "You and your brother, you're close. You do everything together. That's a special bond. So for some girl, no matter how pretty, no matter how sweet, no matter how _perfect_, to come in and change that--well, you'd be inhuman to not be bothered."

Sam tries to process those words, tries to believe them, but it's hard.

"Drink your water," she orders. "Slowly and steadily. We'll get you back on your feet."

Obediently, Sam takes a sip.

"You know, if it's just between you and me," she said, looking furtively at the door. "The more perfect they are, the harder it is to accept. That's how I felt when my Ginny got herself a boy. He was everything I could ever want for her. But the closer she got to him, the further she got from me."

Sam took another sip. "So what'd you do?"

"The only thing I could," she says. "Wished her well and threw her the best damn wedding this town has ever seen. They moved away, even, all the way to Wedowee, but I have to support her. See, I figure, there's no greater sacrifice than that. Than letting someone else be happy even when it breaks your heart."

Sam's head is still spinning a little, and his stomach is struggling to settle. For a second, he thinks he might pass out again.

Someone is grabbing the glass from his hands and pushing him back. "Good Lord, child," Alice says. "You are quite the sight!"

Sam blinks at her, confused.

She just grins. "You just rest, you hear?" she says. "Things will be better when you wake up."

Sam doesn't know whether to believe her or not, but it's a moot point, because it's taking him under faster than he can stop. Sam should be used to that--that sense of powerlessness--but it still the worst thing he can think of, and the fact that it's inevitable doesn't make the shame any easier to bear.

-o-

When he wakes up again, he's still on the couch. His armpits and neck are cold, and there's something suspiciously icy between his legs. He's about to investigate when Dean's voice permeates the haze.

"Sam? Sammy?"

Sam wants to respond, tries to, but he can't quite make it happen.

There's a hand, heavy on his brow. Something cool smoothes across his forehead. "You've still got a fever, kiddo," Dean says.

"Maybe we should call the doctor?" Alice Tanner's voice asks.

"No," Dean says. "He's my brother. I've got him. I've got him."

The words echo in his head, rolling around his consciousness, easing through his body with a pleasing coolness he can't explain.

It's what he's missed, what he's wanted. The part of him that's missing. The hope for unity, for restoration. The hope that he's still human enough to _be_ a brother, still human enough to be _Dean's_ brother.

Not because it's who he is. Not because he's his brother's responsibility. But because everyone wants to be loved. Everyone wants to feel connected. Everyone wants family and Peace and Grace and Hope...

And Sam sleeps to the dreams of his brother's hand on his head and the sound of his brother's voice _He's my brother, I've got him, I've got him_.

It's a dream Sam doesn't deserve.

A dream Sam's weak enough to need.

And Sam sleeps on.

-o-

The next time he wakes up, he's thirsty. His mouth is parched and his tongue feels big. He tries to sit up, but his muscles feel stiff.

"You with me this time?" Dean asks.

Sam looks over, almost surprised to see his brother. "Yeah," Sam says, and he pushes himself to sitting. "I'm fine."

Dean gives him a incredulous look. "You had heat stroke."

Sam made a face. "No big deal."

"You were out for almost five hours. You scared Alice half to death."

"Is she okay?"

Dean swears. "Are you even listening to me?"

Sam shakes his head. "They shouldn't have called you," he says. "I'm fine."

Dean sighs, rolls his eyes. "Sure you are," Dean says. "Heat stroke, you're fine. Stays locked up all night, you're fine. Works a miserable job all day, you're fine."

"I'm just doing what I need to do," Sam says, and he doesn't want to fight about this. He doesn't want to relive the shame. He doesn't want to have to admit it all again. He doesn't want to say _monster _and _apocalypse_ and _my fault_. He will, he deserves to, but this is as much of a luxury as he can wish for himself.

"You're not living," Dean tells them, and there's a hint of desperation in his voice.

"I'm alive," Sam tells him. "It's more than I deserve."

Dean stares at him for a moment, really looks at him. "You really believe that, don't you?"

Sam shakes his head, his jaw set. "I don't believe it," he says. "I know."

Dean seems to deflate at that. "This isn't why I came here," Dean says. "This isn't what Peace is all about."

"For me, it is," Sam tells him, and it's as honest as Sam has ever been.

Dean looks like he wants to say something, to do something, but a soft knock comes at the door, and Alice peaks her head through. "I heard voices," she says. "Praise the Lord, Sam, you're awake! Are you hungry? Are you thirsty? Let me get you something--"

Alice prattles off and Sam is swarmed by well-meaning Tanner children. He tells them he's fine, and tells them thank you for the help, and then pushes to his feet and makes his way to the door.

The walk home is harder than he'll admit. Dean doesn't talk to him, but follows him a step behind.

-o-

Sam takes the next day off at Tanner's insistence and spends it cleaning around the house. He pads lightly through the rooms, dusting the furniture and organizing the magazines in the living room.

Dean checks on him, seems reluctant to head out to the garage, despite the Ford Escape he's got sitting up on blocks out there.

"Do you want me to call Grace? Stay in tonight? Have a guy's night?"

Sam smiles and wishes he could say yes.

He can't.

Dean's spent a lifetime watching over Sam, taking care of Sam. That's why Dean insisted Sam come here. Because it's his duty.

But it doesn't have to be. Dean doesn't need Sam, and if his brother knew what was good for him, he wouldn't want him anyway. Sam will be here for Dean, but he won't let Dean waste his life on being a big brother to the monster Sam's become.

In the end, it's simple logic. Grace is good for his brother; Sam is not.

"Nah," he tells Dean. "I have some catching up to do in Jefferson's library."

And it's true, of course, but Dean looks disappointed. Sam trusts that's a feeling that won't last.

-o-

He gets a question from a hunter in West Texas about an ancient exorcism that works on demons bound to places. Sam could probably find what he needs in the library at Jefferson's house, but he goes into New Hope anyway. After all, a little extra information never hurts.

-o-

Life returns to normal. Dean doesn't mention the incident, but he seems keen on bringing Sam glasses of ice water.

Sam makes a mental note to get them for himself, so Dean doesn't have to.

-o-

"You drinking enough water, son?" Tanner asks. "One mistake, it ain't your fault. You let it happen twice--well, that's on you."

Sam wants to laugh at that. He thinks about the blood and the power and Ruby and the Apocalypse--his great history of mistakes. The ones he made that cost him everything. The ones he'll spend the rest making sure he doesn't make again.

"Yes, sir," Sam confirms, and he holds out a bottle of water, because when Sam falls, he falls hard, and even if it takes the rest of his life, he'll make sure that no one else ever has to pick him up again.

-o-

It'd be easier if the people of Peace didn't remember everything so clearly. Now, Anita gives him free drinks, whatever Sam wants, and the Wanet children have a lemonade stand and give him all the proceeds to buy bottles with. Sam tries to refuse but they look so earnest, that Sam doesn't have the heart to say no. He carries a bottle of water with him, and flashes it to concerned citizens, just to preempt their concerns.

Not that it works.

Delores has taken to serving him different kinds of tea on the porch. His glass is never even half-empty when she fills it again, leaving Sam almost despondently water logged.

"You best drink it, boy," Everett tells him.

"Really?"

"You don't want her bringing you drinks in bed, do you?"

"Would she?"

"Oh, son," Everett says with a shake of his head. "Surely you've picked up on it by now."

"Picked up on what?"

"We take care of our own," Everett says. "No questions asked."

"That's sweet," Sam says. "But I'm fine."

Everett just looks at him. "And who says it has everything to do with you? We all need our purpose, son. Don't take ours just so you can pretend to have something like your pride, you hear?"

Sam does, and he feels chagrined as he takes another sip of his tea.

-o-

Saturday comes with another trip to the library. She's there, all smiles and books, and Sam can't help but let himself go just a little.

They are talking about the Rocky Mountains, and Sam tells her about the time Dean was rammed by a mountain goat. He leaves out the part about the monster in the woods, but the mountain goat was real, white coat and Dean's bruised back and all.

She laughs. "So you've been to the Rocky Mountains. You've been to both coasts. You've been to the Smokies and Florida and Texas and the northwest. Is there someplace you haven't been?"

It hits Sam that there isn't. "No," he says. "I've pretty much got the continental states covered."

"Wow," she says, impressed. "The farthest I've been is Florida. We went there on vacation when I was ten."

"We moved around a lot when I was a kid," Sam tells her, a little stiff.

She nods. "That's hard, isn't it?" she asks. "Even with all you got to see. Never feeling settled, like you belong."

Sam almost startles at that, because she gets it. She gets it without him having to say a word. She has summarized his entire childhood, his entire _life_. The stability he wanted and never had. The sense of _home_ that was missing from every motel room he's stayed in.

"I'll bet it's nice now," she says. "Makes you appreciate being at Peace. You know what it is you have."

And what it is he doesn't deserve. He can live in Peace. He can have a permanent address. But Sam will never be home.

_Never_.

-o-

"Zachary!" Everett yells one night.

On the sidewalk, the figure in front of the house stops, and Sam hasn't noticed him until now. The Wanet children are putting on a production of the _Pirates of Penzanze _or _Scooby Doo_, Sam hasn't quite figured that out yet, but he's been pretty intent on that. So much that he's missed the kid traipsing down the street.

"Sir?" Zach asks.

Of all the people in town, Zach is by far the quietest, and therefore, the one Sam knows the least. Sam doesn't go out of his way to know these people, but they seem to make a point to know him. Since Zach never seems to have much interest, they've just never connected.

"Where are you headed to tonight? Does Sylvie know you're out?"

Zach smiles at that, a little rueful. "Last I checked, Sylvie wasn't my mother."

"She might as well be, son," Everett says. "You best be remembering that. Now you come here for a second, son."

Zach's grin widens a little bit, and Sam sees dimples deepen in his cheeks as he approaches the porch. "I'm just going for a walk."

"No one just _goes_ for a walk."

"Sam does," Zach points out.

"And he don't do it for nothing, neither."

"Really?" Zach asks.

"He's got to clear his head."

"Maybe I need to, too?"

"I suspect you do, son," Everett says, "but I hadn't pegged you on far enough along to figure that out yet. You're too young. Don't have enough experience between your ears."

"Sir, I promise you, I have plenty of experience."

"Son, you're barely out of high school. Whatever experience you have, I promise you, it's not the kind that's permanent. You're lucky for that reason. Coming here before you've done reached your adult self. Easier to mold that way, but Sylvia says you're damn stubborn. Deceptive little thing, too."

Zach blinks innocently. "Me, sir?"

"Which is why I ask where you're goin'."

"I can promise you," Zach tells him, and there's an earnestness in his voice that's too good to be totally true. "That's another life."

"No, it's this one, too," Everett tells him sternly. "'Bout time you figured out how to bridge the two. You'll be better off when you're whole."

Zach seems to consider this. "There are parts of me I don't like."

"And you think I'm the picture of perfection?" Everett snips. "You can't leave part of yourself behind. You can only learn how to accept it into who you want to be."

"That's easier said than done," Zach replies.

"Damn straight," Everett concedes. "Just keep it in mind while you go on your walk."

Zach hesitates, and nods, ducking his head as he heads on down the street.

Everett waits until the boy is just out of earshot before nodding at Sam. "That boy is special," Everett says.

"What makes you say that?"

"Look at him," Everett nods.

Sam does. The kid seems to slouch lower, his pace quickening down the street. He looks normal to Sam, tall for his age, hair a little too shaggy.

"Sometimes you can just tell," Everett continues. "Boy belongs here, but I don't know if he's figured it out yet." Then Everett looks at Sam. "The bright ones figure that out sooner or later. And don't you forget that, Sam."

-o-

It's hard to think about Grace and Dean and Dean and Grace, so Sam's more than eager to leave them in the house to head to the library. He's got some research to do about a possible satanic cult that existed in the 1800s, so he should have plenty to keep him busy.

The fact that Microfiche Girl will be there isn't a factor. Not at all.

-o-

She's there already and she's bored. She is watching the door when he comes in. "You're late," she observes.

"I didn't realize we had a schedule."

"Usually, you're very punctual."

"There was a cow on the road on the way in," Sam says.

She nods, as though that makes total sense. "I was worried you wouldn't show."

"What if I didn't have any research?" he asks.

She gives him a look. "You think that stops me?"

He opens his mouth and closes it, feeling flustered.

She laughs at him. "I so love you, Sam," she says.

Emotion pings in him, and he wants to run away as much as he wants to smile.

"We'd better get to work, right?" she asks.

He nods, mouth dry. He stays there two hours and can't remember one word he read.

-o-

It bothers him all week.

_I so love you, Sam_.

Who says that? Who actually tells strangers that much? She won't even tell him her _name_, but she loves him?

It doesn't matter if it's a casual, friendly thing. It doesn't. Because _love_--it's a word Sam has saved for people, a word Sam doesn't _deserve_, and he doesn't even know her _name_.

-o-

"Women troubles, huh?" Everett observes one morning.

"What?" Sam asks.

"You've got women troubles," the old man replies.

"Uh. No."

Everett laughs. "I can tell."

"How?" Sam asks.

"You carry lots of burdens. I've seen you flustered and depressed and downright pissed as Hell. But that look? Like a little lost puppy who don't know which way is up or down?" Everett asks. "Only one thing in the world can do that to a man--it's a woman."

Sam feels uncomfortable. He juts his chin and refuses to affirm it. "I don't have a woman problem."

Everett persists, leaning forward. "If you ask me, there's only way to fix it," Everett says.

"Yeah? How's that?"

"When a woman has you chasing your tail, when she's sending you signals you can't make out and you want to kiss her and scream at her all at once--you got to bite the bullet."

Sam waits for more. "Bite the bullet?"

"Marry her," Everett says with force. "Get a ring on that finger, get her in a church and take her home. You spend the rest of your life trying to figure her out, though it's basically a lost cause."

"Is that what you did?"

"Damn straight," Everett confirms. "Delores was the most confounding woman alive. Still is. She makes me furious, all her damn meddling and nonsense. The fact that we can fight day after day is all the reassurance I need that I made the right choice."

Sam is sort of awed by that--not just the picture of love, but the sense of knowing--of being _sure_--that something is right and good.

The last time Sam felt that way, he nearly destroyed the world.

Sam doesn't know how to trust it again.

-o-

Grace comes over mid-week. They all make dinner together, and it's light and casual. After dinner, Chris Porter comes by with a question about his truck, so Grace and Sam are doing dishes in the kitchen.

It still feels awkward to Sam, being alone with her. But if Grace notices, she doesn't say anything. She just smiles bigger for both of them, and asks Sam if he'll watch some TV with them.

Sam shakes his head. "I have work to do."

Grace nods, then presses her lips together. "No," she says. "You don't."

Sam is startled. "What?"

"You don't really have work to do," she says. "You'll do something, but you don't need to."

"But--"

"But you're avoiding me," she says. "Avoiding me with Dean."

Sam's brow furrows and he tries to shake his head.

"Sam, I'm a part of Dean's life," she says. "So I'm a part of yours."

"I know that," Sam says slowly. "I just don't want to screw things up."

"By what? Being there?"

It's happened before. But Sam's throat is too tight to speak.

She understands. She collects a breath and blow it out. "You do your own thing for you," she says, and her voice is firm. "Not for me, not for Dean. You have rights and if you won't stick up for them, then I will, even if that means I have to leave Dean alone. It's not my intention to replace you. It's my intention to be a part of both of your lives. And if you can't accept that, then I know where the door is."

Sam almost feels like panicking. Dean and Grace are perfect. Grace means everything to his brother. He can't be the reason she leaves--he _can't_.

Needless to say, Sam watches TV.

Dean drinks a beer and sits with an arm around Grace, who howls with laughter at the program.

Sam watches them from the chair, sipping a glass of water, and trying to feel like he belongs.

-o-


	4. Chapter 4

PART FOUR

-o-

Sam considers not going to the library.

"You always go to the library," Dean says.

"Not always," Sam says.

"He missed a few weeks ago," Grace informs them from kitchen.

"See," Sam says with a nod.

Dean glares in Grace's direction. "You were helping Sylvie clean out her attic," Dean says, loud enough for Grace to hear. "It's not like you had much choice in it."

"So, that just means I don't always go."

Dean sighs. "You _do_," Dean says. "You can't mess with my life like this, man. It's just not cool."

"It has nothing to do with you."

"You'll throw off my entire day," Dean says. He leans closer and whispers, "And will seriously hinder my afternoon sex plans with Grace. We like to do it in every room in the house."

Sam makes a face. "Every room?"

Dean nods, grinning. "_Every room_."

"Even my bedroom?"

"Technically it's both of ours, since we own the house together."

"Dean!"

"If you promise to go, I promise we won't do it in there again!"

Sam crossed his arms, and slumped in his seat. "Dude, you're just wrong."

"I'm not the one deviating from plan here," Dean points out.

"I just...have some things I need to figure out."

Dean raises his eyebrows. "Things?"

"Yeah," Sam says. Then he draws his face into a look of seriousness as best he can. "Something about a hunt. Just something I'm working on."

"So, let me get this straight," Dean says. "You have a question, and you're not sure where to go for answers?"

Sam knows he's being set up for something, but can't stop himself from walking into it. "Yeah."

"Here's an idea, college boy," Dean snarks. "Maybe _a library_."

Sam sighs. It's a simplistic answer, one Sam really should have seen coming, but the plainness of it strikes him with its irony.

"Last I check, that's what libraries are for, right?" Dean asks.

Sam gives him a withering look. There's no way Dean could really know the implications of it all, but Sam doesn't have the energy to delineate it all. His no-lies policy is steadfast and true for most things--but when it comes to Sam's penance, the weight he carries to remind himself of what he betrayed--that is an issue that he will always carry on his own, questions or no questions.

"Answers," Dean continues. "You have a question, you go to a library. I would think a research geek like you would figure that out."

"Yeah," Sam replies. And there is sense in that. Not that Sam's answer can be found in books or microfiche, but he can't solve the problem of the girl without dealing with the girl.

"So go find your answers, Einstein."

"Yeah," Sam says. And it sounds really simple. So simple that he can't deny it. He licks his lips and nods. "Okay."

-o-

He's the one who's early today, and he takes the time to open his notebook and hold his freshly sharpened number two pencil as he sits and stares at the door. He thoroughly freaks out the old man who wanders in and he thinks that Phil might now believe that Sam has a crush on him.

The man actually preens, which is almost enough to distract Sam from his focus.

He's saved when she comes through the door.

She catches his eye, smiling in surprise. She settles next to him. "Look at you, all bright and early today."

"I had a lot of research," Sam says.

She glances at his blank page. "I can see that."

Sam blushes a little. "I wanted to talk to you."

"You did?" she asks. "Don't you want to talk to me every week?"

"No. I mean--yes." Sam sighs, collecting himself. "You just haven't told me much about your personal life."

She looks vaguely interested. "Why suddenly so interested?" she asks. "I mean, we've been sitting here for _months_, and it's been like pulling teeth to get you to talk at all, and now you're asking questions?"

"It seems like we've been doing this a long time to not know more."

"Doing what?" she asks coyly. "I thought this was just research."

Sam refuses to take the bait. "You won't even tell me your name."

"I tell you all about my school. And what I think about life. And we had a really nice debate on early American literature the other week that was very telling in regards to your thoughts on the development of feminism in America."

"No, about _you_," he says. "Who you are."

"To be fair, _Sam_," she says. "You haven't told me a lot about yourself."

Sam opens his mouth and has to close it, because she does have a point.

She shrugs easily. "I know you're name is Sam and that you live with your brother in Peace. I know you work at a farm but seem to have a side interest in everything from history to law enforcement to religions. And a mild fascination with witchcraft and weaponry that probably should make me nervous."

"But it doesn't?" Sam ventures cautiously.

"You're holding a lot back from me," she says knowingly. "You're not quite lying, but pretty close to it."

"Then why are you still talking to me?"

"Because you're not doing it to hurt me. You're not even doing it because you don't respect me," she says. "You're doing it because you're too scared."

"So, what about you?" he asks. "Why haven't you shared?"

She smiles at him. "You haven't asked."

"I'm asking now," he says. "Who are you?"

She regards him carefully, and purses her lips. "We'll get to names later," she says. "Something else."

"Where are you from?"

"The classic follow up," she says. "Nice and generic yet still somehow relevant."

Sam tries to stay serious, but she's making it hard. "Just answer the question."

"I'm a native," she says. "Born and raised in New Hope."

"Do you like it here?"

"It's home," she says. "That's not a _like_ sort of thing. That's just part of who I am. My family has been here for generations, it's in my blood. It's small town and sometimes reclusive, but if I deny that part of it, then I'd have to deny a part of myself, and I'm not willing to do that."

That's a fact Sam understands, actually. The good with the bad, the way they form who you are. Sam had to accept it a long time ago, that he _is_ a monster, that he _is _an addict. That he should be killed for the benefit of society. His life is only extended by his brother's good graces, and Sam's refusal to let his brother down again.

But Grace's admission lacks the self-loathing of Sam's, and for a second, he's awed by her. She's bright and beautiful and so sure of herself, not in an egotistical way, but in the way of strength that makes people truly strong, truly remarkable.

"It's not always good, though," she says with a laugh. "It made dating pretty hard in high school."

"Your parents knew about everything you did?" Sam asks, not from experience, but from supposition. His high school dating experience was speckled among the various places he lived and his big brother's obnoxious cheering.

"No, because I'm practically related to two thirds of the town. My own little Maycomb, only in real and living color."

"So, does that make you Scout Finch?" Sam asks.

"Well, that depends," she says. "Are you my Dill Harris or my big brother Jem?"

Sam considers it with a bemused frown. "Maybe I'm more of your Boo Radley."

Her smile widens and she nods her head approvingly. "Reclusive and mysterious," she says. "I can see that."

"I do what I can."

"Just stay away from the scissors," she advises.

"And please don't wear ham costumes on Halloween."

"I'll do what I can," she vows in return.

Sam can't help but smile, because this feels good, and she makes it easy to forget that pleasure is an emotion he doesn't deserve. "I'm sure you will."

"Is that enough for you for one day?" she asks. "Because I actually do have work to do today."

"Yeah," Sam says. "That's more than enough."

-o-

Over time, Grace settles into their lives like she was always there. It was always a given with Dean, but now she's a part of Sam's life, too. She comes by on weekends, and sometimes stays half the week. She takes to cleaning like a pro, and even lends Sam a hand in the kitchen. She takes over the closet in the office, and the desk Sam has set up is pushed to the side to make room for an easel and chair.

Sam has to accept she's here to stay.

It's harder than he wants it to be.

Which is why Sam knows it's more important than just about anything else.

For Dean, he knows. For Dean.

He moves the computer desk to his bedroom and sets up his laptop in a corner of his room. No one says anything, but the next day, Sam can hear Grace humming in her studio, like it's meant to be.

Sam starts looking in the newspaper at the ads and tries to see if there's a someplace he can move to when giving up his office is not enough. He doesn't say anything about it, and he tries not to think about how well Grace fits there, so much better than he does.

-o-

Dean volunteers to babysit

Sam just gapes at him when Dean tells him. "You're kidding, right?"

"Dude, why would I joke about that?"

"Because you told me you volunteered to babysit."

"I like kids."

"Have you ever watched one before?"

"I watched you all your life."

Sam snorts. "And look how well that turned out."

-o-

Maybelle Wanet is all Southern charm with a touch of spacey-ness that Sam can only attribute to three growing children.

"I do declare!" she cries, letting them inside. "I forgot I hired you boys! I was expected Amanda Tanner, cell phone appendage and all!"

There's a crash from inside, and Drew Wanet's voice bellows over the cacophony. "I _told _you!" he yells. "No MMA impersonations in the house. You take it outside and keep it clean, you hear?"

Dean quirks an eyebrow.

Maybelle giggles a little. "They're just rambunctious," she explains, leading them through the cluttered living room.

Sam's pretty sure that's code for: prepare for a disaster.

-o-

It takes some doing, but Maybelle finally has the kids together. The three of them, all brown-headed little moppets, smudged with dirt and stained with grape juice, are lined up, shuffling and smiling and looking unconvincingly innocent.

"Sean, Emma, and that little one is Liam," Maybelle explains, pointing down the line. "Don't let his size fool you. He'll be the one that makes you feel like you're losing your mind, I'll promise you that. Emma and Sean you'll see coming, but he'll sneak up on your and scare your pants off."

"Youngest children are like that," Dean agrees.

Maybelle laughs. "And those with a hint of the devil in them!" she says.

They all laugh. Sam thinks he might be sick.

"Now, you boys just call if you have any troubles," she says, grabbing her purse. The horn honks from out front. She flashes them a smile. "And if Emma throws up, don't worry. Unless she starts getting the trots, put her on the toilet and don't let her leave until it all comes out."

Dean is nodding like that is totally normal.

Maybelle pauses in the doorway. "Oh, and if Sean's shoulder pops out, don't worry about that none. Just don't let him do tricks with it and we should all be fine."

Dean repeats, "No tricks. Got it."

"I can't thank you boys enough," she coos from the doorway. "Y'all be good, hear?"

The children give a chorus of vague agreement and half-hearted goodbyes.

Maybelle disappears and the front door closes with a bang.

Sam looks at Dean who raises his eyebrows. They look at the children.

All three are eyeing them.

Dean smiles.

Sam is pretty sure this does not bode well.

-o-

The kids devour two frozen pizzas and half a gallon of ice cream for lunch. They run around in the yard for a few hours before coming inside and consuming a pitcher of lemonade. They're playing in the living room as the afternoon wanes, and Dean is half-buried in a pile of Legos that he's helping the boys turn into a castle.

Sam's on the couch, watching. He's still wary. Children are so much smaller than he is, and he's always vaguely afraid he'll hurt one of them by accident. Besides, children are innocent and pure and good, and he's basically evil personified if he bleeds, so he would really rather not risk excessive contact.

Emma is all of eight years old. She's a pretty little thing with blonde ringlets. She comes out of her bedroom wearing a pink t-shirt and a pair of shorts, with a tutu over the top of them and a plastic tiara in her hair.

She walks up to Sam purposefully, stepping over the various Lego formations.

"Marry me," she proposes, holding out a gaudy crackerjack ring.

Sam freezes. "What?"

She looks up at him earnestly, stepping closer with the ring out. "Marry me," she says again.

Dean snickers while he continues working on his Lego tower.

Sam swallows. "Uh," he says. "I'm a little old for you."

She is undeterred. "But this is make believe," she assures him. "I'm the fairy princess and I need my prince. You are the _perfect _prince."

Sam feels his cheeks flush. "Dean's really got the more, um. Princely attributes."

"Dude, I'm taken," he says. "Sam's a great second choice though, sweetie."

"You're the one I want," Emma persists. "You are tall and dark and handsome. And you're helpful and hardworking."

"Uh. How do you know that?"

"Mommy tells me you work at the farm every day, rain or shine. We watch you come home from work and see you as you help make dinner. And the other week, you helped Katherine Lin get her ballet slippers out of the tree. And I saw you help Delores pick up her groceries that fell on the sidewalk last week."

Sam's brow furrows. He looks to Dean for help, but his brother is too busy enjoying himself. Sam looks back at Emma. "That's just being a good neighbor."

"Princes are great neighbors!" she says. "You're the Prince of Peace!"

Dean actually howls at that one, and Emma's older brother, Sean, rolls his eyes. "That's Jesus, dimwit."

Emma looks a bit distraught of this news. "Then he can be Peace's Prince. Prince Sam. And you must marry the princess and we will reign over the land forever!"

"You'd better say yes, Sammy," Dean advises. "It's not nice to refuse a lady."

Sam scowls and smiles meekly at Emma. "As long as it's make believe," he says as he accept the ring.

Emma whoops, jumps up and down and throws her arms around Sam's neck. "You're my dream come true!" she cries. "Thank you!"

Her love is so genuine that Sam doesn't have the heart to pull away, much less contradict her.

-o-

When they get home, Grace is already there, and dinner is on the table. It would seem old-fashioned if Sam knew that Dean didn't do the same for her just as often.

It's roasted chicken and new potatoes, and Dean is all stories as they dig in.

"You should have seen him," Dean tells Grace. "He had that kid wrapped around his finger."

Sam purses his lips. Dean's penchant for exaggeration does not serve Sam well. "She was bored."

"She asked you to marry her," Dean countered.

Grace is impressed. "Wooing them by your mere presence," she says. "And here I thought I had the irresistible Winchester."

"Baby, I only appeal to the legal crowds."

"Dude, I'm eating," Sam says, glowering a bit.

"You'd like to think so," Grace tells him with a coy smile.

"That's not what you said last night."

"Hey, remember I'm here," Sam insists. His penance does not involve hearing Dean's sexual exploits.

At least, not while he's eating.

Grace turns to him with an apologetic smile. "Sorry, Sam," she says. "What were we talking about?"

"Babysitting," Sam reminds her with a petulant tone.

"Right, and Emma loved you," she says. "Where's the ring?"

"Sammy gave it back," Dean interjects. "Such a gentleman."

"It was just make believe."

"Well, I think it's adorable," Grace says. "Little girls like to see a man who will respect them and take care of them. She needs that kind of positive influence in her life."

Sam looks down, because he wants to say, _then I shouldn't even be allowed near her_. But he knows Grace won't tolerate it; not now, not ever.

"So, you all had a good time, then?" Grace asks with a merciful change of the conversation.

"I made this _way_ awesome Lego castle," Dean says. "Had a moat and everything."

"Yeah, and you bored the kids because you wouldn't share the Legos."

"I just had to finish," Dean says, defensive.

Sam rolls his eyes, but the light humor is back, as much as it ever is. Turning back to Grace, he is purposeful in his words. "These potatoes are amazing," he says. "Did you boil them?"

"Cooked them with the chicken."

"Huh," Sam says.

"It keeps the juices inside."

"Good job," Dean says. Then Dean belches, and turns a smile at Grace with all the alacrity of a child.

Grace turns exasperated eyes to Sam. "Maybe Emma had the right idea after all."

-o-

"You're always going," Everett says. "Where you off to in such a hurry?"

"I have to work."

"Aw, Tanner ain't such a hot head," Everett says. "No, you don't go 'cause you have to. You go 'cause you want to."

"I just like to be punctual."

Everett snorts. "That's like sayin' you just like to be miserable," he says.

Sam raises his eyebrows.

"We all got our responsibilities, boy, and we all do them," Everett says. "But that ain't life. You walk around town, you do it to walk around town. 'Cause you like it. And as long as you're doing it, that's where your mind ought to be. Not on yesterday's dealings and not on tomorrow's Hell. Not even on the list of things to do today. Just on that walk. That's how life's supposed to be lived, boy, and don't you forget it."

Sam considers this carefully, thinks on it every step he takes as he arrives to work five minutes early, just like clockwork.

-o-

Dean is out with Grace in New Hope tonight, and Sam doesn't feel like cooking for one. Frozen dinners do nothing to feed his appetite, and the thought of taking the time to cook is not appealing after the day he spent baling hay.

Instead, he goes a block over to the heart of town. He nods to Edna in the House of Nails. She's got a nail file in her hand as she waves wildly at him, nearly taking out Nina Porter in the process.

He resigns himself to the indignity of eating in the bar. Not that he has to be embarrassed, but he just knows he'll be a magnet for everyone else who walks through that door when he's seated all alone.

He orders a Cobb salad and drinks a glass of water. The place is mostly empty. Sylvie stops by briefly to down a glass of beer and Anita and Julia bicker in Spanish as Sam tries not to notice that Julia seems to be ogling him.

He's almost done when Caris and Levi come in.

They're holding hands, and she's giggling as he holds the door for her. They greet Anita and take a seat at the table next to Sam.

"All alone tonight, brother?" Levi asks.

Sam smiles. "Dean's in town."

Levi nods. "Well, a little solitude is good for the soul," he says.

Which strikes Sam as funny. There is no such thing as solitude in New Hope.

"Your brother is in town often these days, isn't he?" Caris asks.

Sam's smile wavers a bit. "Yeah," he says.

"He must be serious about Grace, then," Caris says softly. "They make a sweet couple."

"Caris," Levi admonishes. "Leave them to their business."

She blushes. "I was just saying."

He puts a hand on her arm. "I know," he says. "I just worry about the example we set with our prying mouths."

She nods and smiles at Sam primly. "I am prone to gossip," she confesses. "I asked Levi to point it out to me."

Levi plants a kiss on her cheek. "In small towns, we are all prone to it," he says.

The door opens and the Wanet family comes in, complete with three children all pushing and shoving. Maybelle wrangles them into a table with only a few overturned chairs and Levi laughs. "Will you excuse me while I go say hello?"

Sam just shrugs and Caris says, "Of course."

Levi gets up and goes to them, and Sam watches as the man greets the family with a friendliness that seems too genuine to be true.

"He works hard," Caris said, looking wistfully after Levi. "It's difficult for him sometimes. He wanted a family so bad, but the Lord just deemed it not so."

It's a confession Sam is not expecting. He's not sure what to say. "I'm sorry," Sam says.

Her eyes focused on Sam again, and she touched his hands. "Oh, you miss my point," she said. "We thought a baby was what a family was all about. Then we found Peace, and we learned that family's something else entirely." She smiled at him, leaning forward. "Now look at us. Knee deep in these people. That's the thing about family. It's the good with the bad, every step of the way. It breaks our hearts, to see some of them not living up to their relationship with our Lord. But they're still family. And it's a privilege, Levi tells me. A privilege to be here for them."

Sam doesn't know what to say.

She smiles, squeezing his hand one last time. "A privilege to be here for _you_."

-o-

He's on his way home when Chris's wife Nina calls him into her yard.

"You're tall," she says.

Sam looks around, awkward. "Yeah."

"You're just what I need."

Sam wants to leave. Now.

She seems to look at him, and laughs. "Oh, honey, I'm sorry," she says. "I can't reach the top branches of my lilac. It needs to be pruned."

"Oh," Sam says. He looks at the plant, and then the shearers in her hand.

"You mind?" she asks, holding them out.

Sam takes them. "No, I'd be happy to," he tells her.

"You just need to whack the top off," she instructs.

Sam hoists the shears, looking uncertainly at it. "Up here?"

She nods. "Just give it a good go."

"But, uh," Sam says. "What about the blooms?"

"Snip 'em," she says. "I want them gone."

Sam gives her a critical look. "Really?

"You have to shear away that stuff," Nina says absently. "It's growing like a weed, so it's hard to, but it'll throw everything off balance. Cutting of the excess will help the core survive, better and stronger than ever. Granted, it might take a few seasons before it blooms again, but it's worth it. It's so worth it."

So Sam cuts it deep and he cuts it generously, pruning off the parts he would have figured most people would keep. It's hard to see it bare like that, especially when the blooms had been so beautiful, but he has to take Nina's word. That when this season passes and new growth awakens, that it will somehow be worthwhile.

-o-

"You never look at the same stuff twice," microfiche girl observes.

Sam looks up from his station. He has police reports from the 1800s in front of him. "So?"

"So, I can't figure out what you're up to," she says.

"Oh." He considers that. "Yeah."

"You're not going to tell me?" she prompts.

"You haven't told me what you're working on," Sam points out.

"I'm working on my thesis," she tells him. "I'm a grad student over at Georgia State. I come home on the weekends, but I have to keep working on it or I'd fall behind. I'm writing my thesis on the historical relevancy of small towns in modern America."

"Which is why you look at so many historical records."

She smiles. "So what about you?" she asks.

"It's not for school," he tells her.

"So what? Business? Pleasure?"

_Penance_, Sam thinks. He just shrugs.

"I told you," she protests.

This time, Sam can't help but smile and meets her gaze with amusement. "We can't have all our fun in one day, now, can we?"

-o-

Bobby calls.

"Damn, boy," he says. "You're going to put me out of a job."

"I thought you wanted to retire."

"And what am I supposed to do with myself retired?"

"Work on cars."

"Now that sounds exciting," Bobby grouses. "They're all buzzing about you. You're the latest thing, the go-to guy. The fact that you were there when it all went down--"

Sam grimaces. "They wouldn't think that if they knew the truth about how it started."

Bobby sighs a little. "It's over now, Sam," he says. "What you're doing, it's a good thing. It's more than anyone could ever ask of you."

"It's never over," Sam replies. "People are still dead because of me."

"And so many more are alive."

"I know what you're trying to do, Bobby. _Don't_," Sam warns.

"All right, all right," Bobby says. "You just keep your head clear, you hear? Good or not, you've still got enemies out there. I'd feel a Hell of a lot better if your brother was watching your back."

"Dean's earned his break."

"So have you."

Sam's voice is lodged in his throat. He chews his lip for a moment. "Thanks for calling, Bobby."

"Line's always open," Bobby tells him right before Sam hangs up.

-o-

Everett has something on his mind.

Granted, the old man usually has something on his mind, but he seems more purposeful than usual. Focused in a way that gives Sam pause. But before Sam can even ask what's wrong, the man holds up his hand and stares at Sam hard.

"Just you stop right there," Everett orders.

Stopping, Sam obeys.

"A little to the left," Everett says.

Sam takes a step.

"No, no, the right," Everett changes his mind. Sam's moving to compensate and the old man curses. "Just step forward, about three feet. That's it, that's it. Perfect!"

Sam stops and looks around. "Uh. Perfect for what?"

From under his blanket, Everett pulls out a child's water gun. He squirts it at Sam, hitting him squarely in the chest before he howls with laughter.

Sam looks at his wet shirt, and wipes the droplets off his face. When he looks up, Everett is still reeling, breathing hard and slapping his knee, a grin on his wrinkled face.

"Was there a reason for that?"

"Something to do," Everett says between pants. He sets the gun on the seat next to him with shaky fingers. "You have to feel alive somehow."

Sam nods a little, pulling his shirt away from his skin. "Well, I hope that helped."

"Who said it was for me?" Everett asks. "Not that I didn't enjoy it, son, but I tell you. You're wound up awful tight for such a young fella. Time for you to laugh, have some fun. You can't be outlived by a crotchety old man now, can you?"

It is pretty clear that Sam can, and he doesn't suppose it bodes well that realizing it doesn't even make him feel chagrined.

"Oh, come on," Everett coaxes. "It was funny."

It _is_ funny. Sam walking up, all obedient. Following the rules, doing it all right--only to be soaked by an 80 year old man who can't even get up from his porch swing.

He thinks about how Everett probably planned this, probably even had Evelyn fill up the gun for him because of the arthritis in his hands. All so Everett could laugh--so they could laugh _together_.

Sam smiles.

"Hot damn!" Everett cries. "You are alive after all."

"Just watch your back, old man," Sam taunts.

Everett practically cackles. "Oh, sonny, I'd like to see you try," he says. "I'd like to see you try."

-o-

Sam has an email from Hank Bratton.

_Barry Heath was by the other week, asking about you. He was wondering about the psychic abilities, even mentioned something about demon blood. I don't know what's all true and what's not, but watch your back._

_I sent Barry on a hunt in northern Michigan. He shouldn't remember who he is by the time he cleans out that mess of poltergeists up there. At least fifteen in the remote woods._

_Take care. _

That night Sam doesn't sleep. Instead, he scours the internet, looking for hits on _Azazel_ and _Lucifer rising _and _sixty-six seals _and _Sam Winchester _to see what comes up. He's not mentioned in most of the scant reports he can find; just as a side note, and for that, Sam has to be grateful.

The next morning, he's so exhausted that he thinks about calling into work sick, but he hears Dean singing in the shower and knows it's a luxury he doesn't deserve.

-o-

Apparently, even guys with demon blood need sleep. Sam drags into work, and he hopes he looks better than he feels.

Sam's many things (_monster, selfish, prideful, betraye_r), but lucky isn't one of them.

His boss gives him a once over, lowers his eyebrows and whistles. "Sam, you look awful," Tanner says.

Sam blinks at him, panda-eyed. "I'm just a little tired," he says.

Tanner snorts. "Son, that's like saying you're just a little dead," he comments. "You head to the house."

"I can work, sir," Sam insists.

Tanner guffaws a little bit. "And you can pass out on my fields midday," he says. "I'd rather not lug your gigantic hide back here."

Sam's brain is functioning a little slow. He keeps thinking about Hank and Barry and poltergeists in Michigan and wonders if his secret is really safe. Dean told Grace. Bobby knows. It's possible. Hunters have gone on less.

Tanner's hand is on his shoulder, turning him around. He's being steered toward the house. When the back door opens, Sam's hit by a blast of air conditioning. "Alice!" Tanner yells. "I got you a daily project you're gonna love!"

-o-

Alice is giddy.

"Heat stroke and then exhaustion," she says. "You're going to make me feel useful after all."

Sam mumbles something like _you're welcome_, but he's not really sure because his head is spinning.

She tuts a little, guiding him through the house. She seems kind of small like that, hands on his arm. He thinks that if he happen to fall over, he would squish her.

"Being a momma is everything to me," she says. "Mothering is in my blood, sort of who I'm meant to be. But now that they're teenagers and beyond--well, there just isn't as much to it, anymore. They scowl and they jeer at you and they never want your help. Makes me wish I had more, just so I had someone to coddle."

Sam thinks about his own teenage years. He remembers those years as unhappy and tense; always caught between the depressive monotony of the hunt and the painful hope of getting out. It had been a tug of war between resignation and rebellion--sink or swim, and it'd taken everything he'd had to swim.

Just to drown four years later.

"Here, here," she says, and Alice is pushing him down.

Sam sits on something soft, and almost melts into it, laying down without realizing what he's doing.

"There," she says softly. "You don't worry about a thing, you hear?"

Sam blinks lazily, once and twice, and he's drifting off when he hears rustling across the room. He opens his eyes and Alice is pulling something out of her closet.

It's a long plastic bag on a hanger, and it's giving her fits. She gets it out and smiles sheepishly at Sam. "I'm sorry, dear," she says. "I just need to get this out so I can finish the alterations."

"Alterations?" Sam asks.

Her face lights up a little. She steps closer. "Can you keep a secret?"

Sam nods.

She pushes the sack up, and holds out the hanger. A long black dress is draped over it, adorned with sequences and frills. "It's our anniversary this weekend," she says, looking at the dress. "I want him to remember what if felt like, way back at the beginning. Sometimes, I think he forgets."

Sam feels compelled to apologize but doesn't get the chance.

"I was a different woman before," she says. "I did some things I'm not proud of. But that's not who I am anymore. It sounds silly, because I know it's not much, but what I've found here, being a wife and a mother--it's my calling. As much as a doctor is called to heal and a teacher is called to guide. It amazes me how God uses us all. Even in the most simple trivialities, His hand is evident."

"You believe that?" Sam hears himself ask, almost as if this is a dream. "That God can use anyone?"

She looks surprised, and turns to Sam with her eyebrows raised. "Why, son, I am living, breathing proof."

Sam shuts his eyes and shakes his head. "He can't want everyone," he whispers. "He can't want me."

She seems to float toward him, and she's smiling sadly. "Sweetie, what you've done can't be that bad."

"It is," Sam says, his eyes snapping open. He shouldn't be saying this, but he can't stop. He can't hide it--not anymore. He's a monster, and he knows it, and hiding it just makes it worse. Day after day with a lie for these people. These _good_ people. "If you knew..."

The confession is there, lodged in his throat, but it doesn't come out. He thinks he could choke on it, but that's too merciful a fate.

"Oh, Sam," she says. "You don't have to share your secrets. Redemption is between you and God and no one else. I don't care what you've done. I just care who you are. And you're a good man, Sam Winchester. You're a good man."

Sam feels his eyes get wet. He shakes his head.

"Oh, sweetie," she says. "You need to remember, and this is a lesson I learned a long time ago: the hardest mind to change is your own."

There's truth to that, Sam knows, but he rebels against it anyway. Sometimes, the only one who knows the truth is the judge inside his very head. He _knows _his sins. He _knows_ his shame. She has no idea, none.

"Now, listen to that blather. You should be sleeping, child. Just go to sleep."

Her voice is soft and melodic and the order is gentle and full of compassion and Sam can't help but fade into the vague nightmares of his dreams.

-o-

When he wakes up, the day is fading. He stretches, and looks at the clock and is embarrassed to see that he's slept all day.

Sheepish, he runs a hand through his hair. He ducks into the attached bath and gives himself a once over. He looks better, actually. His face looks brighter, and as he studies his own features, he realizes how much he's changed. He remembers the pictures he took with Jessica. He remembers the senior photo that was run in the one yearbook he managed to get in.

The features are the same, he realizes, just older. Weary and maybe wiser, if only because experience is a harder teacher than high school or Stanford could ever be. Sam aced every class he ever took, but the lessons that mattered, the ones that were high stakes pass or fail, were the ones Sam crashed and burned at, completely and totally and in a spectacularly bad fashion.

But he's still here. He's standing in the Tanners' bathroom, here in the heart of Peace, and he's _still here_. It doesn't matter if he deserves it or if he doesn't; he's _here_, and he can't change that.

The man before him is hard to recognize. And yet, Sam knows him well.

Sam tries to remember if he could ever look in the mirror and like what he saw.

Today seems like a Hell of a time to start.

-o-

The Tanners are sitting down for dinner when Sam wanders out. He's immediately assailed by the fourteen year old twins, Eliot and Julian, who besiege him with questions about what's a better submission move in MMA, an armbar or a choke.

Sam's too befuddled to deflect, so he tells them that an armbar is painful and a choke is uncomfortable, and if you want a quick tap, then the armbar is the way go, but if you want to show your opponent who's boss, to just choke them out.

Both boys turn on each other, with declarations of being right, and they're tackling each other in the living room trying to prove their point, when Alice walks in, hands on hips. "Really, you two, we have _company_," she says. "And this is how you act?"

The disentangle and have the decency to look sheepish, with identical looks of mild chagrin.

Alice turns to him with a smile. "Honey, we've set you a place at the table."

"No, no, I'm okay," Sam says. "I should be on my way."

"On your way to my table," Alice corrects him. "Now, don't you insult a lady, young man."

"Mom's made lasagna," Julian tells him.

"You can't skip Mom's lasagna," Eliot chimes in.

"She only makes it for special occasions," Julian continues.

"So you'd really insult her if you didn't stay," Eliot concludes.

And if that's not a successful guilt trip, Sam doesn't know what is. So he follows the boys to the table, where Amanda and her sister Larissa are already seated.

"You're at the head of the table," Amanda says with an indifferent shrug.

Uncomfortable, Sam moves there, all too aware of the elaborate set up of plates and bowls and glasses in front of his place.

"Only the best for our guest," Alice says, swooping in from the kitchen. She puts a plate of salad in front of Sam, before putting the bowl of the rest on the table.

Tanner steps in and settles down on the table across from Sam. "You're looking better," he observes.

"I feel better, thank you."

"You just wait until you taste Alice's lasagna," he says. "And you'll feel pretty amazing before we send you home."

Alice comes in, sitting at her spot. "Well, say the prayer," she says. "Bless this food and let this boy eat."

"Alright, alright," Tanner says. He holds out his hands and the children follow suit. Alice hold a hand out to Sam and Amanda holds out the other. Sam only hesitates for a moment, before smiling and taking their hands.

He watches as they bow their heads together. His throat is tight as Tanner prays the blessing on the food, the family, and Sam himself.

It makes him want to run, but this is Peace, Alabama, and there's nowhere to run to, so Sam sits and endures and tries to take it for what it is.

-o-

Dinner is delicious. Alice serves him first, the best selections of everything, and an extra helping of cherry cobbler for dessert.

Sam goes home full and rested.

When he's laying in bed later, he feels warm and full for the first time in months.

It's a good feeling, which is why Sam can't sleep. He can't let himself give in. Not yet. Not ever.

He gets up and heads into the library. He stays awake reading an ancient text on demonic creatures just to bring himself back into balance.

-o-

Sam's life falls back into its rhythm. The walks in the morning, the hot fields during the day, and the long nights in Jefferson's library. The people come and go, Everett tells him about whatever's on his mind, Dean makes jokes as he moves around the house, and Grace is painting a watercolor of an open field in Sam's former office.

_This is it_, Sam tells himself. This is what he has, what he's meant to have. There's nothing more and nothing less and Sam's okay with that.

He really is.

He tells himself that every morning and every night. He tells it with every chore on the field and every time Dean kisses Grace.

_This is it_.

-o-

"I'm thinking about taking some classes," Dean says one night over dinner. Grace has made chicken pot pie and it's still steaming in the fading twilight.

Sam pauses mid chew and looks at his brother.

Dean shrugs. "Get certified," he says. "There's some good programs at the community college in New Hope. It'd just be a couple nights a week, and I could advertise more if I was certified. Might get more business that way."

It makes good business sense, of course, so that's not the problem. The problem is, Dean is talking about _school_. Going to _school_. Sam's dream, the thing he fought so hard for and watched crash so hard--

He's hit with a wave of jealousy and regret and hurt that he just can't pull together.

He nods instead. "Oh."

Dean shifts, seems uncomfortable. "I was thinking," he continues. "Maybe you could take some classes, too. You know, so I don't feel like the odd man out on campus."

Sam shakes his head. "With the farm and the hunting research at night, there's just not time."

"You don't need to keep up with the hunting resources," Dean says. "We're at Peace now, Sam. We're letting that go."

"People need me."

Dean sighs. "Fine. Then quit the farm."

"We need the money."

"No, we don't," Dean tells him. "Jefferson left us more than enough, and the garage is turning a profit now."

Sam shakes his head. "I need to work," Sam says.

"No, you just need something to do," Dean says. "So why not take some classes? Be the geekboy you were born to be."

Sam shakes his head. "No," he insists. "I can't. Besides, there's nothing for me there."

"You could start by finishing your undergrad--"

"To do what?"

"I don't know," Dean says. "Go to law school. Do what you always wanted to do."

Sam laughs, and it's short and bitter. "I'm not going to be a lawyer, Dean. Not that Sam Winchester: Demon Blood Addict and Attorney at Law doesn't have a nice ring to it."

"Sam--"

"I could advertise with demons," Sam continues. "_If you're a demon who thinks you're misunderstood, talk to Sam Winchester and he'll be stupid enough to defend you_."

Grace looks awkward and Dean looks resigned. "Sam--"

"Or, hey, I know," Sam continues. "Maybe I could handle liability cases. You know, when you do something stupid like starting the Apocalypse, I can recommend the best way to cut your losses and try to make amends."

"Okay," Dean interrupts harshly. "Forget I said anything."

Sam pulls back sullenly, poking at his plate with his fork. He doesn't usually let that happen, let it all out. He has to keep it under wraps, keep it hidden, keep it where it can't hurt anyone, where it can't burden anyone.

He sighs. "I'm sorry."

Dean snorts a little. "Yeah."

"No, I am," Sam says again. "I shouldn't have--it's just not in the cards for me."

"It could be," Dean says.

Sam shakes his head. "No," he says flatly. "It can't. But it'll be great for you. I mean, certification? Definitely the best way to get your business going."

Dean hesitates, his jaw tight. He glances at Grace before turning his eyes back to Sam. There is protest there, questions and frustration. Sam watches his brother pull it back, rein it in. "Yeah," he says with a small nod. "That was a little what I was thinking."

It's not quite the truth, and they both know it, but as far as lies go, they've both told bigger ones. Besides, Sam knows the difference between the lies you tell to hide a secret and the lies you tell to change your own mind.

Sam spent a year telling Dean the former. He's spent the last three telling him the latter.

-o-

No one was born in Peace, Sam finds out. The closest thing they can look to is Maybelle Wanet's youngest son, but he was almost a year old when they settled here four years ago.

"So how did you end up here?" Sam asks. "I mean, it's not exactly a metropolitan area."

"We all just sort of show up," Everett says with a shrug. "Seems like if you're supposed to be here, you're here. And Lord knows I can't imagine this place without each and every one of us."

Sam just nods.

Everett spits, a splash of chew hitting the sidewalk. He squints up at Sam. "You believe that boy? That we're all supposed to be here?"

"It sure seems that way," Sam says.

Everett adjusts the chew in his mouth, yawling a little. He cricks his neck. "So what about you? You believe you're meant to be here?"

The question makes Sam hesitate, and he looks away. He looks back at Everett and tries to smile. "I'm meant to be with my brother."

Everett grimaces a little, smacking his lips together. "You think that's close enough?"

"Well," Sam says. "I think it has to be."

"For now," Everett agrees with a nod. "For now."

-o-

She's not there. Sam gets to work, but when an hour slips by, he begins to get nervous.

He has his books open and a fresh sheet of notebook paper, but he can't keep his eyes off the door.

It's almost dinner time when Phil wanders in and asks him if he's got everything he needs.

Sam gives the door one more look, smiles sadly, and says _yes_.

-o-

Liam Wanet crashes his bike. His older sister is hysterical, comes running down the street, screaming and crying. Sam's the first one there, down the street and toward the dead end. The boy had clipped the curb, launching himself headlong into the barricades. There's a head wound, so the blood is to be expected, but it's hard to see a kid so little lie so still.

Dean's in New Hope and the rest of town is slow to respond. For a moment, Sam's alone with the boy's limp body, and he freezes. He's had first aid training and he's dealt with far worse.

But this boy is so little, he's so _innocent_, and Sam just wishes Dean were here.

Dean's not here, though. Sam is, and Sam has to do what he can.

He feels down the boy's body for breaks, carefully probing the neck. He opens the boy's eyes, and watches as the pupils shrink with light. Turning a shaking hand to the boy's head, he brushes away the matted hair, taking a good look at the gash.

Some stitches, probably, and the kid will bruise.

But Sam thinks he'll be fine.

Then, the boy opens his eyes. He squints, looking bleary for a second, before asking. "Are you an angel?"

Sam doesn't know whether to laugh or cry. Instead, he asks, "Are you okay?"

When the rest of the town shows up, Liam is sitting up, nestled against Sam's body. There is a fuss and an uproar and there is some swooning involved and a whole lot of tears. Sam is mobbed as the boy is pulled away and Sam swears he hears someone saying _hallelujah _in the background.

The crowd is so focused on Liam, checking his eyes, asking if he's okay, crying in relief, that Sam slips away easily. Everyone is there, from Edna who is barely standing upright on her walker, to Zach, who looks almost more afraid of being there than of the situation itself. Sylvie has gauze and Byron is speaking calmly and Alice Tanner is organizing the children into an line and telling them that she'll buy all of them a piece of pie down at the bar.

Sam lingers for a moment, watching them, and thinks how good it is. How well they do that. How _right_ it seems.

Which is when Sam decides it's time to walk away.

He closes the front door behind him and swallows hard against the feeling lodged in his throat and convinces himself it's better this way.

-o-

Liam's mother is beside herself with thanks. She comes by after Liam is settled with a milkshake and a movie, nestled next to his father and siblings. She thrusts a milkshake into Sam's hand as well and thanks him for the fifth time in three minutes.

Sam stammers and blushes and says _you're welcome_.

Somehow, that's not enough. "You know, we'll just have to celebrate!" she says.

Sam's eyebrows go up. "Uh--what?"

"We'll celebrate!" she says, with more vigor this time. "We'll just have a party. Everyone can come."

Sam is shaking his head. "No, really, that's not necessary," he tries to explain. "The milkshake is enough."

"Don't be silly!" Maybelle says. "You're a hero. Heroes deserve more than a milkshake."

"But--"

"But nothing. Tomorrow, we're celebrating _you_. All you've done for this town, it's about time we gave you your due."

Sam tries to protest, but she won't have it.

"It's not optional," she insists. "You don't have to do anything. We'll take care of it all. Just be sure to open the door after church so we can get it all set up. You hear?"

Reluctantly, Sam nods. "Yes, ma'am."

"Good," she says, patting Sam's cheek. "Now, you rest up. You've got a full day ahead of you."

Sam's faced down demons and angels and Lucifer himself, yet this is perhaps the most terrifying thing yet.

-o-

It's a whirlwind of a party. They show up before the closing chord of the benediction has even lifted from the air.

There's barely a knock at the door before they're everywhere. The table is filled with food and the whole house smells of baked goods and roasted chicken.

Sam's hugged by everyone who comes through the door and the children all treat him like a jungle gym. He's forced to drink three types of lemonade and four flavors of ice tea and even one glass of fresh squeezed orange juice. He's handed slices of cakes, fruit wedges, chicken legs, and cream puffs.

He is asked to retell his story, only to have it retold without him, bigger and more effusively with each subsequent telling.

It's warm and it's amazing and Sam thinks this is what he wanted when he ran to Stanford_. _This is family and friendship and normal and _safe_.

So close to him, that he almost lets himself believe.

But he can feel the blood in his veins, throbbing with an alien intensity and he knows it's not safe yet.

It's not safe yet.

-o-

The crowd leaves sometime in the late afternoon. They clean up the mess before they go and leave Sam alone in Jefferson's house with nothing more than a feeling of exhaustion.

Dean shows up not long after that, but Sam hasn't moved from the seat he collapsed in at the dining room table.

Dean looks at the stacks of tupperware, the cards and balloons. The WE LOVE SAM banner is still hanging crookedly in the dining room.

"Something you want to tell me?"

Sam gives Dean his best pathetic face. "Not really."

Dean gives it all another once over and nods. "Okay then," he says. "I'm going to crash early."

Sam just nods, not sure whether to feel happy or miserable. It occurs to him that it's a little of both, that maybe he's miserable that he's happy or that he's miserable because he can't be happy.

-o-

Sam survives another week without any mishaps. There are no farming accidents. There are no in town heroics. He does help Erick un-stick the cash register at the General Store, but he begs the kid to keep it on the down-low, just in case.

-o-

Saturday is rainy, but he goes into New Hope anyway. He has some death certificates to go through related to a possible string of hauntings a few counties over. He settles into his workspace, organizes his notebooks and his pens, and glances at the door.

She's not there.

This is the second week in a row, Sam thinks, and he doesn't know why he's keeping track. Maybe she's finished her thesis. That was why she was there, Sam rationalizes. The flirting was just a distraction.

And that's the way it should be. It's not like they were really friends, and it wasn't like they were ever going to be.

She comes in, flushed, about thirty minutes in. "Sam," she says, and her face is red and her eyes wet.

For a second, Sam can only stare. He'd convinced himself that he was never going to see her again, and to see her like that--

Her face crumples a little as she sinks to the seat next to him.

He feels panicked and his hands flutter, unsure what to do. "Are you okay?" he finally manages to ask.

She just shakes her head, looking at him through tears. "It's my grandfather," she manages. "He died this week."

Sam's mouth opens, but stutters with the words. "I'm--I'm sorry," he says. One of his hands rests awkwardly on her shoulder.

She sniffles. "We knew it was coming," she says. "He's had a chest cold since winter. They did a stint in the hospital, but he wanted to be home. He went to sleep the other night and just didn't wake up."

"Then he went peacefully," Sam says.

She nods. "I'm sorry," she tells him. "I'm just--such a mess."

"No," Sam says quickly. "It's fine."

"It's just--he was a good man," she tells him. "I remember in the summers, I used to get up early and go over and sit on his porch with him. Sometimes he'd tell me stories, and sometimes I'd tell him stories, and then other times we just sat there quietly together, just him and me, until the rest of the world woke up to join us."

Sam doesn't know her grandfather, but he thinks of Everett, and he can feel the ache of her words deep in his chest.

"The funeral--it's next weekend," she say, wiping her eyes a little. "So I--won't be here."

"Of course," Sam says.

She hesitates for a moment. "I just--maybe you could come there?"

Sam thinks he misheard. "Come there?"

She nods, her face hopeful and desperate all at once.

Part of him knows he should say no, that he can't do that because this thing they have, this friendly library exchange, needs to stay here--public and casual. He doesn't know her name, and it's really for the best, because if he knows her name, then he might think he knows _her_.

But it's her request. It's her honest request and she's been crying and she's looking at him with such _hope _in her eyes.

"Of course," Sam says, and he sounds like he means it. "Anything you want."

The smile on her face almost makes him forget why he really should have said no, why he should have stopped coming to the libraries on Saturdays months ago.

In for a penny, in for a pound, and Sam can't break this girl's heart now. Not ever. Sam's caused enough death and destruction, so maybe he owes her this much. And if it's maybe that he cares about her, too--more than he's ready to admit, even to himself--well, that's just something he'll have to think about later.

Much, much later.

-o-

The day is fading into a thousand brilliant colors. The light is smeared against the sky, evolving and darkening with every passing minute.

Peace is quiet that night, with the distant sounds of laughter down the street. The porch creaks as Sam pushes off it while he rocks, and the air is thick when Everett slices it with a neat spit.

The wad hits the bushes in front of the porch and Sam shakes his head. "You know, you really shouldn't chew that stuff," Sam tells him. "It could kill you."

Everett grins, his smile full of stained teeth. "Well, hell, boy," he says. "Everybody's got to have a vice. Don't make it right, but it makes us human."

Sam remembers his need for Ruby's blood. He remembers the rush of power when exorcising a demon. He remembers the feeling of darkness when it took over.

Everett is looking at him. "So, what's yours, boy?"

Sam thinks of those he gave up. He thinks of his long hours at the farm. He thinks of his time in Jefferson's library. He thinks of how hard he works to push happiness from him. "What makes you think I have one?" he asks instead.

Everett laughs. "Because, son," he says. "You're about the most human person I've met in years."

-o-


	5. Chapter 5

PART FIVE

-o-

He runs into Nina Porter at the General Store. Sam is looking for something resembling a newspaper, but is coming up painfully empty.

"Makes you feel a little backwater, doesn't it?" she asks, grinning at him.

Sam blushes a little. "Some habits just die hard, I guess."

"Nah, it's not you," she assures him. "It's this town. Great as it is, there are some things it just doesn't got."

"Like a paper," Sam concedes.

"And a Starbucks," she says. "Lordy, what I wouldn't give for a vanilla latte some days."

Sam laughs. "We are a bit out there."

"Moving here was one of the hardest things I ever did," Nina admits. "I wanted nothing to do with it. I'm a city girl at heart. But it was so very important to him--"

Sam smiles ruefully. "Did you ever find out why?"

She shrugs, frowning a little. "Damned if I know," she admits. "But I know it's important to him. I've seen the change in him. The way he is here--and well, it's just hard to regret."

"So, you don't regret it then?" Sam asks.

She makes a small noise in the back of her throat. "You just have to figure, it's not about you. It's about what they need. You keep that in mind, you can do anything. Even the impossible."

_Even the impossible_, Sam thinks. That seems just about right.

-o-

After dinner, Dean and Grace are snuggled on the couch. Sam almost joins them, but they have that look in their eyes, and Sam knows that he'd be more than a third wheel if he stuck around.

He slips onto the porch, and settles onto the swing with a sigh. He could do some work up in Jefferson's library. A hunter called in regards to an Indian ritual for a hunt in Oklahoma, but Sam's got time yet.

He's thinking about a new way to sub-categorize the books in the library when Everett yells at him.

"You goin' to daydream all day, boy!" the old man bellows.

Sam blushes. "Sorry," he calls back. "Just thinking."

He sees Delores next to him. "Tell him to come over, dear," the woman says.

Everett swats at her. "I'm getting there."

"Before I'm dead, dear."

"Not soon enough."

"Watch that or you'll never live to see morning."

"Don't tempt me."

"Tell him!"

"Okay!" Everett yells. He looks to Sam. "Delores wants you to come over!"

Sam just grins. "Really?"

"Yes, dear," Delores calls to him. "I've got something just for you."

It makes his chest tighten and a lump forms inexplicably in his throat. It's not just their thoughtfulness, which Sam might almost expect by now. But it's just so hard to grasp. Sam's a no one, even in Peace. He works on the Tanner farm, blends into the background, and does his best to make no trouble for anyone. He doesn't _want _attention, and the times he gets it anyway, he pulls back harder until he's invisible again, just to make sure he doesn't get it.

But it's not even that. It's...all the surprises in his life have been bad. The truth about hunting. Holiday let downs. Getting kicked out of the family for a full ride. Finding Jess on the ceiling. Finding his father dead. A knife in the back, the knowledge that Ruby had played him--

No, Sam and surprises didn't mix.

But Delores and Everett are watching him, hope so plainly written on their wrinkled faces, and Sam doesn't have the heart to say no.

When he gets over there, Delores has disappeared inside. Everett is in the swing, arms folded over his chest and scowling. "Damn woman didn't shut up all day," he mutters. "Just _Sam this _and _Sam that_."

Sam is embarrassed as he settles into the rocker. "I'm sorry."

The front door bangs open. "You've got nothing to be sorry for," she tells him. "Everett's a jealous old thing. He used to hate on our dog so much whenever I gave him table scraps that we had to get rid of him."

"It was a vile thing," Everett snipes.

"He was a sweet puppy," Delores says. "Just like you. And I can actually feed you chocolate without killing you, which is so much better."

Sam is just kind of perplexed, especially since Delores is laying out cake on the table.

It's a sheet cake, iced with thick white frosting that is frothy at the ends. Globs of it are molded into points across it, and Sam knows it's homemade.

"The cake looks beautiful," Sam says.

"Thank you, dear," Delores says as she takes her knife. She slices into it, slow and clean. "I was thinking of you this morning, and I just thought, that boy needs a cake. Skinny thing like you, all that hard work. If anyone deserves a cake, it's you."

Sam shakes his head. "I'm fine, really," he tries to say.

But Delores is still going on. "So I went into the General Store and I bought everything I needed. Even sent Everett back for a little cream cheese to add to the frosting."

"Two damn times," Everett gripes. "She wouldn't use the low fat kind."

"It's just not the same, dear," Delores says. "And have you seen that boy? Too skinny!"

"Really, I mean--"

"It was nothing," she says shortly. She lifts a generous piece up and puts it on a plate. She repeats the process. "I wanted to.

She hands the first piece with a fork to Everett.

Then she picks up the other, puts a fork on the plate and hands it to Sam.

"Saved the best piece for you, dear," Delores says with a smile and pats him on the head.

"I've been trying to eat that piece all day," Everett gripes. "See all that frosting? It's damn near perfection."

Sam offers him the plate. "You can have it."

"Samuel Winchester," Delores admonishes. "I gave that to _you_."

Sam looks up, startled. "I know--I just--"

"Do not insult me by giving it to Everett," she says. "That's _your_ gift, and it ain't no crime to enjoy it."

Sam draws his brows together and slinks into the seat, pushing gently at the cake with his fork.

"Now you enjoy it, dear," Delores tells him firmly.

Sam doesn't look up as she goes inside.

"You goin' to eat it?" Everett asks.

Sam glances up. "Yeah," he says. "I, uh. I didn't mean to take your cake."

"It wasn't my cake to begin with," Everett says. "I just wanted it."

"But you should have been able to have it," Sam says. "It's your house."

"It don't matter if it's my house or your or the damn White House," Everett tells him. "It was always _yours_. Ever since Delores made the thing, she had you in mind."

Sam looks at the cake and nods.

"You think you're not worth it?" Everett asks.

Sam shrugs. He's past lying to the old man, who knows all the truths anyway.

Everett whistles. "Boy, there's plenty to go around, of the good and the bad. You have to believe your worth is inherent or you'll throw away the things that matter most. Sometimes taking what's good and right ain't selfish; sometimes acting like you don't deserve nothing is even worse, and don't you forget it."

Sam tries to believe it. As a show of good faith, he plunges his fork in, slicing off the end. He takes a bite and smiles at the man.

Everett smiles back, his own teeth coated with frosting.

Sam swallows and laughs a little, taking his fork to the cake again. The frosting is thick and rich, sweet and smooth.

When he's done, his stomach is full and he's still smiling.

-o-

New Hope is a small town, so it's not hard to find the church. It's tucked on a quiet road on the backside of town. It's easy to find, because every car in town is there.

Sam sits in the car and watches for a second, as mourners pour out of their vehicles. Old men, middle-aged wives, teenagers, and little children: the entire town is here, Sam thinks. Maybe the entire county.

He feels silly, suddenly. That he came. That he thought his presence might matter.

But he's here, and he made a promise. He doesn't break his promises. Not anymore.

Swallowing hard, he checks his tie in the rearview mirror and climbs out.

Inside, the church is packed. There are people from wall to wall and all the pews are filled. He stands uncomfortably in the vestibule, trying to find a place for himself, when he sees her.

She looks different than normal, with the dress and high heels. But still the same. Still beautiful and timeless.

He realizes he's staring when her eyes meet his and recognition dawns on her face.

He blushes and thinks to leave, but she's already moving toward him, navigating through the crowd and headed straight toward him. Sam has no choice but to stay there and greet her.

"You came," she says, and she sounds surprised. Her eyes are red but dry, and her nose looks a little sore. But she's not crying, and Sam can only think how hard that must be for her.

"Yeah," he says. "I'm so sorry for your loss."

She nods, blinking back fresh tears. "It's--hard," she admits. "But I know it was his time."

Sam nods back and tries to think of something to say. Maybe before, when he still believed in things like heaven and eternal rest--but now--now Sam just doesn't know. He doesn't know what to give her. He doesn't know why he's here.

Then she smiles a little. "Will you come sit with me?"

Sam blinks, opens his mouth and shakes his head. "No, I mean, you've got your family--"

"I want you there with me," she says. "Please."

Sam's come this far for her. It seems silly not to walk a few dozen more feet.

He sits by her side, ramrod straight and almost painfully rigid. He glances at her through the service, feels his breath hitch as she breaks with a sob during the benediction.

The casket is open, a pair of pale hands folded in death, and even the preacher cries as he remembers the good things this man has done. Acts of kindness and noble obligations and there's a church full of people that reminds Sam that good people exist, good people _matter_; even in a world of darkness and evil and death, people still find hope.

People, but not Sam, even though Sam's here, and he's beginning to wonder.

-o-

After the service, they all move to the cemetery in a long, slow procession. He's going to take his own car, but she looks at him and Sam knows enough just to follow.

He stands next to her at the cemetery, close enough to touch her, but he doesn't let himself. The sky is gray as the casket is lower to the ground, and Sam watches her as she bows her head during the final prayer.

There's something magical about that, watching her pray. It's more enticing than anything else. Because she prays like Sam wants to, like he _used _to, eyes squeezed closed, face scrunched in concentration, as if she's trying to make sure God hears her.

She's reaches out without looking and finds his hand. She takes it in her own and squeezes it for the rest of the prayer.

-o-

She's beautiful--inside and out. Sam's always sort of known it, but not like he does now.

There's a reception at the church, something simple and low key, because that's the way it is in towns like this, with people like this. Sam figures it's his cue to leave because she has family to attend to and friends to remember with.

But she lingers, willing him to stay with her eyes alone, until they're alone in the cemetery, standing on the hot grass in front of a mound of dirt.

"Death is so hard sometimes," she says.

Sam knows.

She looks at him. "But I don't need to tell you that, do I?"

He blushes a little, shoving his hands into his pockets. "It never gets easier," Sam tells her. "Even when you expect it. Even when you see it coming. It still hurts just the same."

She nods a little, and looks back at the gravestone. "It's funny," she says. "Sometimes I don't think we mourn for the person who has died, but for ourselves."

"What do you mean?"

She smiles at him in the sunlight. "When someone dies, they have the chance to move on, and we can only have faith that it's a better place. But for those of us who are left, who have to keep on living, we're always haunted by the memory. We carry the loss with us and we can never let it go. We can accept it, we can deal with it, but we never let it go."

Sam swallows hard, and remembers how there wasn't really anything left of Jessica to bury. He remembers a mother he never had the chance to know. He remembers his father sprawled on a hospital floor. He remembers burying his brother in a pine box in Pontiac, Illinois.

These are his losses, and so much more. One is enough. Added together, and Sam doesn't know how to function, doesn't know how to _breathe_.

She reaches out, touches him gently on the cheek. Her head is cocked and her face curious. "It doesn't have to define us," she says. "You have to know that, don't you, Sam?"

It's her grandfather's funeral, and Sam's the one who suddenly wants to cry.

Without warning, she moves closer. Her arms reach up and encircle him, pulling him into a hug. At first, Sam is startled--he doesn't know what to do.

But her arms are steady and her warmth is reassuring and his fears and doubts melt away until he's holding her, too.

Sam's not sure how long they stand there--seconds, minutes, hours--but it's long enough to count. It's long enough to matter. It's long enough.

-o-

Dean is watching a baseball game on TV. He's sprawled on the couch, one leg up on the coffee table.

"You want to pop a brewsky? Maybe join me?"

Sam looks at the screen. It's Atlanta and they're up by three in the fifth.

He looks at his brother and considers going upstairs. But Dean's offer is innocent and sincere. So Sam smiles and sits. "Much of a game?"

"Pretty good pitching battle," Dean says. "You want me to get you a drink? I was going to get a refill."

Sam shakes his head.

Dean groans a little, sitting up and putting both feet on the floor. "A little drink won't kill you, Sammy."

Sam's stomach clenches and he thinks about the powerful taste of alcohol. Sam knows his limits, and he's proven himself to be an addict before. He can't risk it. He can't risk anything. He shakes his head tightly. "I just shouldn't."

Dean sighs a little. "I know, I know," he mutters. "The whole twelve step process."

Not quite, but close enough. Sam's had to cope with this somehow, and he'd be a liar if he said that he still didn't dream about sliding a blade across the soft skin of Ruby's arm.

Standing, Dean claps Sam on the shoulder. "I'm proud of you," he says suddenly. "The strength it takes to do what you do--I don't think I could do it. Hell, I know I wouldn't last a day."

Sam just looks at him, perplexed.

Dean smiles and heads out.

Sam watches him go and feels like he's been sucker punched. It's been years since he's heard his brother say that--years since he's heard that tone in his brother's voice. Not just acceptance, but _pride_. Not just love, but respect. Not just commitment, but _trust_.

It's dumbfounding to think that sometime when Sam wasn't looking, his brother let him in again, not just for the hunt, but completely. How many months had it been since Dean second-guessed him? How many years had it been since the shadow of doubt lurked in Dean's eyes? How long had they been _brothers _without Sam even noticing?

Dean comes back with a beer and a bottle of water. Dean pops the cap of his and takes a sip, settling back into the couch. Sam breaks the seal of his water and takes a drink. He looks at his brother for a long moment, before looking back at the screen. He takes another drink and when the next batter hits a home run, they both cheer.

-o-

The nights are getting longer, and knows he should be working, but sometimes he can't help himself. The air is fresh in Peace and the company is good. The town has certain expectations and Sam can't break them after all this time, no matter how much he should.

"You never told me how you got here," Sam says. "You told me that no one was born here, and that everyone has a story--but how did you end up at Peace?"

Everett seems taken aback a bit. "You really want to know?" he asks, a little bemused.

"Yeah," Sam says. "I do."

"I was working for a big company out in New York," he says. "I was damn good at it, too. Lots of money to be made, and I made more than my share."

"So why'd you leave?"

"You'll laugh."

Sam shakes his head. "I promise."

Everett chuckles, then sighs, looking over the street. "I'd like to tell you it was that things were going badly. That I was winning the world and losing my soul, but it weren't true. Life was good. Life was perfect. Delores was glowing--a true socialite. We gave most of our money to charity, but still had a nice little brownstone. Had a boy and a girl, and they're perfect and beautiful."

"So what happened?"

Everett sucked on his chew for a moment, spitting a little. "God told me to leave," he says.

Sam waits for more. "God...what?"

Everett nods, seriously. "I was praying one day, thanking the Lord for his blessin's, and he done laid it on my heart. Told me to sell everything, quit my job and uproot my family."

"So--you did?"

"I did," Everett says. "Delores thought I was straight up mad, but she came with me, not a second's hesitation. And we just packed up what we could in the car, and drove. We drove until the car died, and ended up here. Too bad your brother wasn't around back then, because that damn car still don't work."

"Wait--you--just left?"

"And settled here," Everett says. "Peace ain't such a bad place to be."

Sam swallows, and thinks on that. The porch swing creaks, and he can hear Delores humming in the kitchen. "Did you figure out why?" Sam asks. "Why God wanted you here?"

Everett stretches a little at that, squinting out into the growing twilight. "For near forty years, I've wondered that," he says. Then he looks at Sam. "But after all that time, I think I've finally figured it out. And don't you ask me why, boy, because I think you know as well as I."

Sam's mouth opens, but nothing comes out. He tilts his head.

"Forty years I've been sitting on this porch," Everett tells him. "You're the first one to come up and join me. That means something, don't you think?"

"Yeah," Sam says slowly. "I guess."

Everett harrumphs a little. "Well, good thing for you, I know. And there ain't nothing you can say to change my mind. So, until you get there yourself, I'll just keep believing for the both of us, you hear?"

Sam hears, but he's not sure he understands. But there is a force here, more powerful than Everett's wisdom, more alluring than Delores' cooking. It's the force that drives people from successful jobs and prosperous lives. It's the force that brings people from every walk of life. It's the force that brings them all together, all _here_, and maybe Dean _was _right. Maybe this _is_ a sign.

Sam's just not sure if he doubts the sign, or doubts himself, but maybe if he stays here long enough, he'll figure that out.

-o-

It's Tuesday night.

Sam finds Tuesday nights kind of boring.

Every Tuesday and Thursday, Dean goes into New Hope. He meets Grace there, sits in Grace's art gallery and finds ways to make her smile. He doesn't usually come home until morning those nights, and sometimes it makes Sam so lonely, he even heads over to the bar to eat something.

Self-imposed exile is important, Sam knows. But too much time alone with himself is a dangerous thing. For him. For everyone.

After showering from a day in the fields, he heads out. Everett and Delores are fighting over dinner. He can smell the barbecue from the Porters' backyard. Erick's dog is barking, and Caris' soft voice trails on the breeze from her open kitchen window.

The bar is mostly empty, like it usually is. Sylvie is nursing a beer and eating a sandwich, talking jovially while Zach sits hunched across from her. She winks at Sam when he comes in, but doesn't slow her pace, and Zach looks almost pleadingly to him for some kind of escape.

Sam isn't the right guy for that. He simply smiles and makes his way to the bar.

Anita comes up. "What'll it be, stranger?"

"I'll start with a water," Sam says.

"You do know our water's just from the tap, right?" Anita asks. "It's not very clean."

"It's fine," Sam assures her.

She shrugs, grabbing a glass and moving to fill it. "I figured you wouldn't care," she says. "I wanted to make sure you knew, though. Before you decided what your Tuesday regular should be."

"My what?" Sam asks.

She puts his glass down. "Your Tuesday regular," she repeats. "What you'll order every Tuesday night."

"I don't need a regular."

"But you do," she says. "That way I can have it ready for you when you come."

"What if I don't show up?"

"You've been here every Tuesday night for two months," she informs him.

That takes Sam by surprise. "I have?"

She nods. "Julia is the one who noticed."

Sam hadn't realized it'd been that long. Time in Peace is slow and fast all at once, flying and crawling until Sam feels like he's just standing still.

"So, you have to have a regular," Anita insists.

Sam shakes his head. "No, really, I don't."

"But you like consistency," she tells him.

And that much is true. Sam's life exists in small schedules and measured actions. It makes things predictable and safe. Makes him predictable and safe.

But he's not ready to accept this yet. A regular means he's _regular_. A part of this town. He can't do that--he _can't_.

"It's really not important," Sam tries to deflect.

"But you already have a Thursday regular," she tells him. "You order turkey on rye every Thursday."

It's a revelation to Sam. It hasn't been a purposeful choice, and he certainly hadn't expected anyone to notice. "I order turkey on rye every Thursday?"

"Like clockwork," Anita says with a nod. "Julia even goes to the store first thing on Thursday to make sure you have fresh cilantro."

Sam glances to the kitchen; Julia is nodding seductively in the doorway. "It's just a habit," he says slowly, turning his attention back to Anita.

"Habit, regular, it's the same thing, brother," she says.

This flusters Sam, and he wants to find the words, but Anita's logic is pretty good. "But--"

"But, what?" Anita says with a incline of her head.

"It's just not permanent," he says.

She snickers. "Sam, you've almost been here for a year now. Your brother runs a tab at the General Store. You sit on your front porch every evening and we all know the path you walk around town in the morning. How much more permanent are you going to make it?"

It's a little mind-boggling, to hear it all spelled out like that. The months have bled together with the simple ebb and flow of Peace. It's been day to day living, hard work out at Tanner's farm, early mornings with Everett, and evenings with the town. Sam's a part of all of it, he's _in _all of it, so why is it so hard to believe?

"You like the chicken and rice," she says. "You cleaned your plate the week Julia put extra picante on it."

Sam remembers that. He remembers eating it, but he can't remember liking it. He can't remember liking _anything_, and that strikes him suddenly as sad.

Sad and right.

"So chicken and rice maybe?" she asks, and she sounds hopeful.

He looks at her and looks at Julia and knows this isn't for him. With a weak smile, he nods. "Chicken and rice sounds great."

Anita just smiles. "Chicken and rice," she says, sounding quite satisfied. She pushes to her feet and yells at Julia over her shoulder. "Chicken and rice, extra picante! Don't forget."

Julia's reply is in Spanish, and Sam slinks lower in his seat as he wonders how this became his life without his knowledge.

-o-

One morning, the air is crisp and there's still a layer of dew on the grass. Sam's pulling on his work gloves, flexing his fingers in the stiff leather when Tanner comes up to him and says they need to talk.

They sit on a pair of hay bales and Tanner smoothes his hands on his thighs. "You have a nice night last night?"

Sam is confused but nods anyway. "Sure," he says. "I guess."

Tanner nods and then swallows. "Because I'm afraid I have to fire you."

Sam blinks and waits for the punch line. When it doesn't come, his mouth opens and he stutters. "What?"

Tanner nods, more certain this time. "You're fired."

"You're firing me?" Sam asks. "But--why?"

Tanner cracks his neck. "Son, you're a damn good farm hand," he says. "If I only could have one hand, you'd be the best one for the job. You work hard and you work right, and that's a damn near impossible combination. I never hear you grumble, and I never hear you ask for anything you aren't given."

"I don't understand."

Tanner looks at him. "Problem is, you shouldn't be doing this. You came to Peace for better things than this, son. Even if you don't know it yet."

Sam's a little speechless. He's just been fired and he's been complimented and he isn't sure which one bothers him more.

"Stop by with the missus and she'll have your last check. The kids wanted to say goodbye to you, too," Tanner explains. "It's been a damn fine time having you on, son, and you'd better stop by to pick up some tomatoes or Alice'll have my hide."

"Yes, sir," Sam says, still too stunned to come up with anything else.

Tanner nods once, claps Sam on the shoulder. "You'll do well, son. You'll do well."

-o-

Sam's too bewildered to walk it off. Instead, he goes straight home. Dean is eating his lunch.

"You're home early," Dean observes.

"I got fired," Sam reports, slouched on the couch.

Dean considers this with a surprisingly nonchalant manner. "Daydreaming about those midget strippers again?"

"What?"

"Clown porn?"

"Dean."

His brother shrugs. "It's got to be a sign, dude."

"A sign of what? That I'm a bad farm hand?"

Dean takes another bite and chews for a moment. He swallows and looks at Sam. "That you were never meant to be a farm hand to begin with?"

"And how do you figure that?"

"It's farming season."

"What?"

"Who fires their best hand during the height of farming season?"

"What do you know about farming season?"

Dean shrugs. "I hear things."

"About farming season," Sam concludes.

"And signs from God."

Sam rolls his eyes.

"Dude, you're in Peace, not purgatory," Dean says. "It's about time you accepted that."

Sam snorts and heads upstairs. If he slams his door like a petulant teenager, it's totally a coincidence.

-o-

Sam turns his attention to Jefferson's library in full force now and ramps up his contacts. He stops in the General Store each morning to buy the paper, and starts scanning the headlines for suspicious happenings. He can't hunt without Dean, but he's got connections in the hunting world. As long as he treads carefully, he might be able to tip some others off.

He tries to get a job at the bar again, but Julia comes onto him in Spanish and Anita says they'd never get any work done if he was around.

Sam loiters around the house, looking for ways to be useful. He starts sweeping every day, and has taken to dusting on a weekly basis. He reorganizes the kitchen cabinets to increase the efficiency.

When Dean can't find the coffee cups and Grace has trouble finding the spices, Dean curses. "You could get a hobby, you know," he says.

Sam tries to look innocent. "I already have the library in top condition. There's only so many hunts I can find and I don't get questions every day."

"Yeah, that's not the kind of hobby I'm talking about."

Sam is perplexed.

"Fun, Sammy," Dean says. "Build model airplanes. Start a garden. Get a dog. Something. _Anything_."

When Sam starts trying to organize Dean's closet, his brother draws the line and pulls Sam into the garage.

"Here," Dean says, and hands him a wrench.

Sam looks at it. "We tried this once," Sam remembers. "It didn't work."

"Well, this time I'm not teaching you so you can do it on your own," Dean says. "This time I'm teaching you because I could use a hand."

Sam just stares. "You don't need a hand."

"I need a hand so I don't kill you," Dean points out. "Besides, it's a good idea. You learn about cars, and I'll help you with the hunting resources."

"You're serious," Sam says, and he still can't believe it.

"If you don't shut up and listen, I'm going to bash you upside the head with that thing," Dean threatens. "So using it correctly is really in your best interest."

-o-

"Holy hell," Ella Montgomery says over the phone. "That tip about sanctifying the grounds was a damn good one."

She's a hunting acquaintance of Ryker Carter. She contacted Sam a week ago about a black dog in the Tucson area.

"I told you it was a good idea," Sam says.

"You didn't say it was going to save my life."

"I thought that was implied."

"I'm a hunter, not a mind reader," she says. "But I just about peed my pants when that thing charged me."

"You'd do better with backup," Sam tells her. "I told you that."

"Good help is hard to find," she drawls. "Speaking of which, I got a lead on kelpie not too far from here. You think I could pick your brain?"

"I still think you need a partner," Sam says. "Ryker's not bad."

"He's also got the personality of a board. Too many years on the hunt."

"You don't need him to entertain you," Sam explains. "You need him to watch your back."

"Well, what about you?"

"I had a partner."

"I mean, why don't you get out there on the hunt?" she says. "I could use something with the experience you have. Hell, we _all_ could."

Sam's heart skips a beat. "No," he says. "I don't have experience you want."

"Just the stuff we need," she says. "You've been to the brink of Hell and back, they say. You've seen the darkness, been surrounded in it, and still came out on top. If there's anyone who's more up to the job, I can' think of them."

"It wasn't like that."

"No," she agrees. "But I'd bet my life that it was more."

Sam closes his eyes, and breathes for a moment. "Call me about the kelpie when you know more."

"Sure thing," she says. "And thanks again."

"Anytime," Sam says. "Anytime."

-o-

Byron Lin asks him if he's interested in some file folders. He has a whole assortment in his garage, with color-coded labels to stick in the top.

Sam's pretty sure the entire town is taking pity on him. Word gets around fast that he's been let go from Tanner's farm, and though the rumors vary wildly, everyone seems to want to coddle him just a bit. Anita gives him free sodas with his meals and Erick always throws in a Ho-Ho with his purchase, on the house.

It is very possible, then, that Bryon Lin is doing the same.

But file folders.

How can the anal retentive in Sam resist?

Byron seems relieved to have him there, and lets him pick through the boxes to Sam's content. There's lots there--the file folders, binders, paper clips, even a T-square.

"You must have done a lot of paperwork," Sam notes, trying to finagle a three-hole punch into his box.

Byron laughs. "Too much paperwork."

Sam grins. "Isn't that always the case."

"Have you worked in business?" Byron asks conversationally.

Sam shakes his head. He thinks about his dreams of being a lawyer and how he'd worked so hard in school. It's a different life. His mouth flattens, but he tries to smile anyway. "No."

"I was in architecture," Byron informs him. There's a hint of wistfulness in his voice. "I was very good. I enjoyed the clean lines and the mathematics behind it. Every choice I made had a clear and definitive purpose. It felt good to be so measured and so precise."

"Maybe I should have considered that, then," Sam says with a laugh. "I was pre-law for awhile in school."

"Another profession of logic and reason," Byron comments. He winks at Sam. "Far too much persuasion involved for me, though."

"I didn't finish my degree," Sam says softly, and he looks down, fiddling with a tape dispenser.

"I'm sorry," Byron says.

"It was a long time ago," Sam says. "Things happened. I had other things I had to do."

"That's why I left, too," Bryon tells him.

Sam knows Byron's comment is innocent, but Sam tries not to smile with incredulity. Byron's girlfriend probably didn't die in a fiery mess over his head and Byron probably didn't throw himself headlong into revenge until he destroyed himself and the world.

"It was a very demanding job," Byron continues. "And no matter how many lines I drew, or how many calculations I made, I still wasn't getting any closer to figuring out the things that really mattered."

There is a faraway look on Byron's face, and Sam recognizes it. It's the distance of a dream, not lost and not deferred, but given up. "Like what?" Sam asks, and suddenly, he really needs to know.

Byron looks at him and smiles. "How to be a husband. How to be a father. How to be a person."

Sam's throat tightens inexplicably.

"I spent a lifetime trying to build my own happiness, trying to construct it with my knowledge and skill," Byron says, and he's looking out the open garage door. Thomas is shuffling cards on the cement and Katherine is running in circles, her pigtails trailing after her in the sunlight. "But you can't find happiness. Contentment, the real thing, is something that finds you. You just have to accept it."

And that's what Sam wants. More than anything. More than normal, more than safety, more than _family_. More than atonement.

Contentment.

"That's what Peace is for me," Bryon says, meeting Sam's eyes again. "This town is my contentment. It lets me focus on the things that matter. Everything else just sort of falls into place. You know what I mean?"

Sam almost smiles, and if he let himself, he could cry. But he doesn't. "I think I do," he says instead, and he's pretty sure he means it.

-o-

He goes to the library so often that he's on a first name basis with Phil. Phil is more interesting than he seems, and he will take Sam through the stacks for hours at a time, pointing out obscure books and rare copies. He even has Sam convinced that the copy of _The Grapes of Wrath_ with the scribble inside the back flap may actually be from John Steinbeck himself, though neither of them have proof.

It reminds Sam of why he fell in love with libraries, of the long hours at his father's knee flipping through books of things he didn't understand, couldn't understand--but _wanted_ to understand. In a life full of lies, the library was a refuge of answers, and Sam has not lost that wonder quite yet.

His questions are specific now. Where before, he wanted to know who he was and what purpose he had, now he just wants to know if something can be killed with iron or fire.

Phil, though--he's just happy for the company.

"It's so quiet here," Phil says. "There just aren't enough people interested in libraries anymore. All this darn-fangled technology. But I'll tell you, libraries have things the interweb or whatever just doesn't have. It has concrete knowledge. Proof that it exists. That it's just not some mad man in his basement in South Dakota."

For a moment, Sam imagines Bobby making Wikipedia entries.

"So I'm so glad to see a nice, young man like you take interest in it," Phil is continuing.

Sam raises his eyebrows, his attention back on Phil. A nice young man, he is not, but it's not worth it to ruin Phil's fantasy.

"You and that girl."

Sam's interest is piqued against his consent. "What about her?"

"Such a bright thing," Phil muses. "Comes in here every weekend, almost like clockwork. And so polite and courteous. Always re-shelves her books correctly."

"Do you know who she is?"

"She's one of the locals," Phil says absently. "Family's been here all their lives. The Fullertons, I believe. Her daddy's the minister at the New Hope Christian church."

Sam's practically salivating, leaning in closer. "Yeah?" he asks.

"Oh, sure," Phil says with a wave of his hand. "She's the only girl--they've got four boys--and yet she smoked them all. Graduated top of her class in high school. School plays, debate team. Full ride scholarship to Princeton, but I tell you, I never seen a girl more heartbroken over college than that one. No one was surprised when she came back to do her masters at Georgia State. She's as much a part of this town as they are a part of her."

It is a mesmerizing tale, almost hypnotic. Sometimes, Sam thinks she's just in his head, a figment of his lonely imagination. But to hear that she is real, that she exists outside of him--it is strangely invigorating. For a second, the tendrils of possibility rise within him.

He had the willpower to stop using his powers. He had the dedication to give up the demon blood. He's given up hunting, he's given up atonement--he's given up everything, but for some reason, he can't find the strength to fight this right now.

"She deserves only the best," Phil adds thoughtfully. "Pure, wholesome girl like that."

He shakes his head, and smiles at Sam, adjusting his glasses on his nose.

"Between you two, my job is worthwhile," Phil concludes. "I have to get back to updating the card catalog, but if you need something, just let me know."

Sam mumbles his consent and watches Phil go.

A pure, wholesome girl like that.

Doesn't deserve a pathetic, screwed up guy like him.

The hope within him recedes, and he lets his common sense take over again. He doesn't deserve to even think about this. He never has.

It's time to let go. This place has made him soft. These months away from the hunt have dampened his resistance. He has to fight harder and stronger than before. He has to stop letting himself believe that Dean's happily ever after could be his.

He just has to stop.

The day, on the drive home, Sam drives clear past Peace. He keeps going and going, as far as he can, until the inevitable pull of it all draws him back.

-o-

As far as Sam wants to go, Peace always draws him back. He's not sure if it's Dean or if it's Jefferson's library or if it's Everett or everyone else, but he can't go far and he can't stay away.

Sam spends a few mornings each week in the garage. It's about as much as either he or Dean can take, sometimes. Things are better between them, but Sam has a hard time forgetting. He's still healing, he's still learning to trust in Dean's forgiveness, and between the sounds of metal on metal, Sam can hear the words that he'll never be able to let go of.

_Boo-hoo._

_I don't know when it changed._

_You're weak._

_It means you're a monster._

_I'm sorry._

_I just don't think I can trust you again._

But Sam's learning about engine and he knows how to change the oil and sometimes, fixing the cars is close enough to make things seem right.

One day, Sam's trying to see his way around a car's radiator when Dean says, "I'm sorry."

Sam looks up around the hood. "What?"

Dean sighs, and fondles a wrench in his hand. He looks up at Sam. "I'm sorry for telling Grace about you."

Sam doesn't know what to say. He looks back down at the engine. "You had to tell her the truth."

"But it wasn't my truth to tell," Dean says. "That stuff's personal. Off limits. Even for girls."

Sam still doesn't have a clue what to say and his eyes are watering.

"So I just wanted to apologize," Dean says. "And tell you that it's not going to be like that."

Sam finally manages a nod, and turns his eyes to his brother. "Okay," he says.

Dean is tentative. "Okay?"

Sam smiles a little, blinks back the tears. "Okay."

-o-

Dean is doing the dishes, and making a racket of it. Grace finds Sam on the porch and settles on a chair near him with a sigh.

"He's going to break something," she says lazily.

"It's just so you don't ask him to do it again."

She smiles and nods. "He can break every dish and it won't make a difference."

Sam nods approvingly. "Good," he says. "Dean needs someone to hold him accountable."

"Since you clearly won't."

Sam frowns.

"You let him get away with everything," Grace continues.

Sam's good humor has faded. "I owe him."

"No more than he owes you."

At that, Sam looks at Grace, shaking his head. "You know better than that. I owe Dean my life. More than my life."

"And you think he doesn't owe you the same?"

"He doesn't."

"And you think Dean's the stubborn one," Grace muses.

They lapse into silence, the sound of Dean's frenetic dish cleaning resounding in the evening.

"You know," Grace says. "Some people would think you don't like me."

Sam tenses a bit but forces himself to keep it under wraps. "Why would they think that?"

"You tolerate me," she says. "Answer my questions, leave me the last of the orange juice in the mornings. But you avoid me, too, when you can. Lock yourself in the library. Take walks when Dean and I invite you to watch a movie."

"I don't want to be a third wheel," Sam explained.

"So you'd rather be a liar?"

That smarts. He's worked hard to overcome that habit and he's worked harder to prove himself trustworthy. "I don't lie to you."

"But you don't tell me the truth," she says.

"You already know the truth," Sam says back, with more bitterness than he should.

She smiled, nods a little. "That's it, isn't it?" she asks. "It's not just that I'm helping Dean grow apart from you, it's that you can't hide from me. You hide the things you can to compensate for the things you can't."

Sam stiffens, and holds himself rigidly in the chair. The Wanet children are screaming down the street, fighting about kickball and who's in the outfield.

Her rocking stops, and she leaned forward. "I want you to look at me, Sam," she says.

It takes everything he has to comply, and he doesn't do it for her. He does it for his brother.

Her eyes are looking deeply into his, and there's an intensity there that is more than a little unnerving. She presses her lips together, and says, "You drank demon blood. You trusted a demon. You started the Apocalypse. You failed your brother, you failed your father, you failed your girlfriend, and for all you can know, you failed your mother, too. Your life is full of one failure after another, some that weren't your fault and some that were."

Sam's throat is tight and his body is screaming to run, but he finds himself immobile, locked into place by Grace's firm gaze.

"When most people look at you, they see a broken man. When Dean looks at you, Dean sees your regret. When I look at you, I see a good man."

Sam's eyes are watering and it's everything he can do not to cry. "How can you say that?" he asks, and his voice is small. "Knowing what I've done--"

"You're a sinner, Sam, same as me and Dean. Same as everyone in this town. But it's not just what you do that counts. It's who you are. And I'm not talking about demon blood or family legacies. I'm talking about _you_. Even in all of it, even when you killed a girl and started the end of the world, there was good in you. You wanted to do the right thing, and you forgot that the ends don't justify the means. People don't go to Hell forgetting. They go to Hell for not letting it go."

Sam's heart is pounding and his palms are sweaty. His mouth goes dry and he can feel the blood throbbing in his temples.

"Do you believe me, Sam?"

Sam works hard to swallow and he can't break eye contact. "I want to."

"Then do," she says.

With that, she leans back, starting her rocking again. In that moment, Grace _belongs_ there, on that porch, sitting next to Sam. She's the one who can take Dean's Peace and make it a life.

What she offers Sam, however, might be even more important, he thinks. Not just forgiveness, because Dean gave him that a long time ago. But the possibility to believe.

Sam's not there yet, but as he rocks next to Grace, he thinks maybe someday he will be.

-o-

Sam's in the garage with Dean, poking through a tool box and looking for a wrench. He's telling his brother about his latest case that he's consulting on for Bobby and Ella Montgomery.

With a grunt, Dean slides out from under the car he's working on and gives Sam a look. "I can't believe you're trusting a kid like that to do that kind of job."

"She's not a kid," Sam reminds him.

Dean raises his eyebrows and stands. "Sure seems that way."

Sam snorts a little. "Well, we could always hit the road and join her for this one. It's only two states over."

Dean makes a face. "We've got a life here."

"I'm sure Everett will watch out for it," Sam says. "Jefferson's place did just fine without us around to mow the grass."

Dean just gives him a look.

"What?" Sam asks.

"Jefferson's place?"

Sam shrugs. "That's what it is."

Dean looks a little hurt and a little disappointed and a lot sad. "Dude, really?"

Sam rolls his eyes. "What?"

"This isn't _Jefferson's _place," Dean says. "This is _our _place. We've been here almost a year, when are you going to accept that?"

Sam's mouth is open and he's surprised. This has always been Jefferson's place to him. This is Dean's break. This is something to everyone else, and as long as Sam doesn't have any ownership, he doesn't have to face the fact that he's here.

If he doesn't have to face that, then he doesn't have to come to terms with the fact that everything is changing.

No, everything is _changed_.

He's been so scared, so utterly _terrified_, because he knows he could lose Dean to this. He could lose Dean and worse--he could lose himself. It hurts to be so close to peace and prosperity and not to be able to touch it. It just _aches_ to have all the dreams within his reach and still have to let them slip away.

He doesn't deserve these things. Not calling them his own makes it easier to reject them. He can't reject what he has never been offered.

Dean is looking at him, shaking his head. "You really don't get it, do you," he says. And there's not disgust, there's surprise. "This is _ours_, Sam," Dean says. "Yours and mine."

Sam shakes his head. "It's yours--"

"Yeah, so what are you doing here?"

Treading water. Living for Dean.

Mostly, Sam doesn't know.

"I came here for _us_," Dean says. "We've both earned that."

"I want to believe that," Sam tells him.

"Then believe it," Dean says. "Wake up and realize that all those things you're fighting against, little brother, are already here. You don't want to let yourself make a life--too late. You don't think you deserve connections--too bad everyone in town _loves_ you. You don't want to be happy--if you'd just get your head out of your ass, you'd realize that you have _everything_. You're just too stubborn to take it."

Sam swallows hard and his eyes burn.

"I can't do this one for you," Dean says. "If I would, I could. But I can't. It's time to step up to the plate and decide how this ends."

With that Dean, leaves the room. Sam's left, staring at the door.

It's a confusing moment. Full of surprise and dread; inevitability and regret. Everything he wants; nothing he'll let himself have. Penance and letting go. It isn't the sin that condemns most people. It's holding on too tight.

It's Peace and it's Grace and it's Dean and it's Everett and it's a girl in a library in New Hope. It's Jefferson's legacy and his father's last wishes and it's Bobby's influence and it's _everything_. It's a hunt that never ends and an apocalypse that did. And it's sins and atonement and it's moving on and _letting go_.

Sam's _here_. He doesn't really know how he got here, but he's here. This town, these people, this _life_. They're his for the taking.

But he's eight-years-old and the world is built on a shoddy lie. He's fourteen and no one has ever asked what he wanted. He's eighteen and when he takes a chance, he gets shown the door instead. He's twenty-two and his dreams go up in smoke. He's twenty four and Dean dies for his mistakes. He's twenty-six and he ends the world with demon blood coursing through his veins.

Sam's life is one of lies and failure, misery and rejection.

So to believe, to _hope_....

After _everything..._

It's scarier than Lucifer himself, and Sam knows.

Lucifer fell to Dean's sword.

But only Sam can vanquish these doubts.

But Sam's many things, but a good little soldier was never one of them. _ It's do or die time_, he thinks, and he's just not sure which side of the line he'll fall on.

-o-

Peace doesn't need a reason to get together, but it takes every one it can find. When Sylvie finds out that it's Zach's birthday, that's more than cause enough for everyone to make their way down to the field behind the General Store for something of a celebration.

There's food, of course, and an assortment of drinks to keep everyone hydrated. Chris has a grill going and Tanner hauled his over as well, so there's more food than anyone could ever eat, but they're all giving it a go.

There's even gifts--which Zach looks embarrassed by--and someone turns on a radio and blasts Creedence Clearwater Revival so everyone can hear. There's talking and there's laughter, and there's even a party game or two.

Sam sips his lemonade and stays out of the way, but can't escape a game of pin the tail on the donkey when the Wanet children corner him. Julia tries to seduce him and Alice Tanner almost force feeds him a bowl of pasta salad, and all in all, it seems about right.

Then Sylvie brings out the cake. It's a huge concoction, dropping a little to one side. It's been frosted by hand and the sloppy lettering on top says _Happy Birthday Zach!_ There is a line of candles running around the outside.

For a second, Zach looks like he wants to bolt. But Sam sees the kid look around and take it in and just accept it.

Then it all changes--Zach disposition relaxes and his smile widens as his eyes light up and it's like he's seeing Zach for the first time.

He watches Zach grin, and it's like the kid is entirely new. Bright eyes and white teeth: Zach looks _alive_. He's hardly the same kid Sam has seen moping around town and fighting miserably with Sylvie's cash register.

Suddenly, he's _Zach_, and it means something. He's alive and he's glad for it.

Erick is patting him on the shoulder as the town reaches the climax of the chorus. Sylvie looks like a proud mother and Everett is bellowing out the notes for all he is worth.

This is what this town does. This is who these people are.

The singing ends and the crowd claps. "Now, blow them out!" Everett prompts.

"But make a wish, dear," Sylvie reminds him.

Zach closes his eyes for a long moment, and Sam feels time stop. He can see it, on Zach's face. The pull of letting go is finally stronger than the need to hold on. The desire to _be_ is finally outweighing the fear of _being_.

And when Zach opens his eyes and blows out every last candle, Sam knows Zach's wish came true.

Zach's finally blown out the candles. Sam still needs to have the courage to make his wish. Once and for all and for always.

-o-

Habit is Sam's saving grace. It's what keeps him going even when his heart just isn't in it. It's what keeps him grounded when his mind just can't quite get the job done.

So he wakes up, takes his walk, and makes breakfast. He eats with Dean and sometimes Grace, and three mornings a week he ends up in the garage, taking Dean's jokes and huffing some of his own. He spends his afternoons in the library, buffing up his contacts and deepening his growing wealth of resources.

Weekends are different, because Grace is always there, and Sam still goes to the library in New Hope. He still doesn't go to church with Dean, but he listens to the singing through the open window and closes his eyes like the girl from the library did at her grandfather's grave.

And evenings always find him on Everett's porch, sipping lemonade and looking out over the street. They talk and they don't, and it's quiet, punctuated by the rough guffaws of Everett's laugh.

"You asked me why I came here," Everett says one night. "But you've never said why you showed up."

It's an honest question and a legitimate one and it hurts so much that Sam can barely think. He looks out across the yard, the street, _Peace_, and he just shakes his head. "I don't know," he says. "I just don't know."

Everett is quiet for a moment. He spits a little, then nods. "I think you do," he says.

Sam looks at him.

Everett nods. "I think you just won't let yourself admit it."

Sam knows he's right.

-o-

Sam goes back to the house and goes up to the bedroom. He goes through the closet and sits at the table in the library.

He looks at the books, neatly lined on the shelves. He sees the meticulously kept files. Even the maps hung carefully on the walls--this is _his_. His.

Not Jefferson's.

_His_.

Sam sits there, soaking that in, trying, trying, _trying_ to believe.

-o-

She beats him there, and she smiles at him when he comes in.

It's different now, more complete. They've existed outside these four walls. Sam's held her hand while she prayed and he's hugged her while she's cried, and Sam's beginning to realize that they're more than study partners.

They're friends, and yet, even more than that. They're connected and interrelated and there is something to this Sam can feel, some indefinable point they're building to, but Sam's not sure what happens next. He's not sure he wants to know because he's not sure if the right answer is yes or no and what each one will say about him.

They talk about studying and school. She talks about her thesis and Sam tells her about his research. It's as much as he's told anyone, and it's not the whole picture, but it's the best glimpse he's afforded to anyone in years.

She smiles like she knows it.

When the afternoon is spent, she packs her things with a sigh. "I meant to thank you again," she says. "For everything."

Sam's eyebrows knit together. He shakes his head. "It was nothing."

She smiles at him. "It was more than you think."

"It was the least I could do."

She looks at him--really looks at him--and Sam feels her eyes take in every feature of his face, every part of his body. She's looking at him and she's looking into him and she can see everything, Sam realizes. She doesn't know details, but she can see his failure. She can see his failure and his brokenness and she can see his persistence and his fear. She can see _him_ more clearly than anyone else has in many, many years.

It's as terrifying as it is reassuring and Sam doesn't know what to do.

She nods, smiling. "I have to get going," she says, and pushes to her feet. "But I'll see you soon, Sam."

She's moving to leave when the question comes to him. "You never told me your name," he says.

She turns and looks at him, amused. Her head is cocked. "Yeah, I guess I didn't," she says. "After all this time, I sort of forgot."

Suddenly, this is very important. Sam's not sure why, but it just _is. _"So?" he asks. "What is it?"

Her smile widens. "It's going to be a letdown after all this."

"Please?"

"Hope," she says. "My name's Hope."

Sam's heart skips a beat and his mouth goes dry. His palms are sweaty and his heart pounds loudly in his ears. "Your name is Hope?"

She is embarrassed. "Hope from New Hope, I know," she says. "My parents weren't very creative. It's a family name. We've lived here forever, and there's always a Hope, you know?"

Sam just stares at her.

She looks uncomfortable. "You okay?"

Blinking, Sam nods. "Yeah," he said, his voice small. He nods again, looking at her in wonder. He remembers Dean's Peace and Dean's Grace and all the signs and wonders his brother told him existed. He hasn't wanted any part of it, has only tagged along on his brother's journey, but this time he's not so sure he can resist, not even if he wanted to. "It's really good to meet you, Hope."

She smiles, ducking her head a little before looking at him from under her hair. "It's good to meet you, too."

And for the first time in a long time, almost longer than Sam remembers, he believes.

-o-

END

-o-


End file.
